THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GREEN      DAYS 
AND    BLUE    DAYS 

^.  Q. 


"  Of  green  days  in  forests  and  blue  days  at  sea.'' 

— R.  L.  STEVENSON. 


GREEN       DAYS 


AND  BLUE    DAYS 


PATRICK    R.    CHALMERS 


THE  NORMAN,  REMINGTON  CO. 

BALTIMORE 

1914 


Edinburgh :  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE.  Printers  to  His  Majesty 


boo? 


To 
E.  M.  C. 


620021 

LffiRAKY 


The  following  verses  have,  with  one  exception, 
appeared  in  PUNCH  or  the  WESTMINSTER 
GAZETTE.  To  the  Proprietors  of  the  one  and 
the  Editor  of  the  other  I  beg  to  express  my  thanks 
for  their  kind  permission  to  reproduce  them  in  book 
form. 

P.  R.  C. 


CONTENTS 

TIMES   AND    SEASONS 

PAGE 

PAN  PIPES  I 

APRIL  IN  "THE  STREET"  4 

THE  VAGABOND  6 

BOND  STREET  8 

HUSTON  I O 

LAVENDER'S  FOR  LADIES  13 

POMONA  1 5 

ROUNDABOUTS    AND    SWINGS  1 8 

THE    MUTINY    YEAR  21 

SWEEP  24 

PATSY  26 

SOLOMON    AND   THE    MONKEYS  28 

TO    A    BISON  3O 

TO    A    BANK    OF    ENGLAND    PIGEON  33 

DAPHNE  35 

PROMETHEA  4<D 

vii 


CONTENTS 

A    CLASSICAL   CONTRAST 

A    SONG   OF    SYRINX 

AN    URBAN    ECLOGUE 

THE    SCARAB 

AWA*    FRAE    GOWRIB 

A    JEWELLED    SELL 

BLUE    ROSES 

THE    ROAD 

THE    ARTISTS 

GOLD  ! 

TO    AN    AZTEC    IDOL 

RICHMOND    PARK 

AS    IN    THE    BEGINNING 

MULL 

THE    LITTLE    GHOST 

COTTAGE    GARDEN    PRAYER 

BALLADE    OF    AUGUST 

BALLADE    OF    THE    FOREST    IN    SUMMER 

BALLADE    OF    FANCY    FAIR 

THE    EVENING    RISE 

TO    A    MACAW 

viii 


CONTENTS 

FACE 

TO    A    TERRIER  88 

TO    A    DEBUTANTE  8 


HORNS   OF   ELFLAND 

A    DREAM  93 

GHOSTS    OF    PAPER  95 

TO    A    CHALK-BLUE  98 

PUK-WUDJIES  1  00 

THE  DISAPPOINTED  DEMON  IO2 

"TREASURE  ISLAND"  104 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE  IO6 

IF  I  HAD  A  BROOMSTICK  108 

WHEN  MARY  GOES  WALKING  109 

THE  GARDENER'S  CAT  no 

"HOLD"  112 

IN  AN  OLD  NURSERY  115 

THE  CUSTOM  HOUSE  117 

A  BLACK-LETTER  STORY-BOOK  119 

A  STORY  OF  A,  B,  C  121 

MOON-FLOWERS  123 

TWILIGHT'S  IN  THE  CORNERS  126 

PETER  PAN  128 
ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ODD   MOMENTS 

THE    FIRST    FISHERMAN  133 

A    MARCH    BROWN  135 

SPRING    SALMON  138 

TO    A    MAYFLY  I4O 

THE    UNATTAINABLE  143 

TO    AN    OLD    FRIEND  145 

TO    A    KINGFISHER  147 

THE    MYTH  149 

ANCESTORS  I  $2 

MY    WOODCOCK  I  54 

WILD    GEESE  156 

DIRGE    TO    A    DEAD    OWL  158 

TO    A    DECEMBER    GROUSE  l6o 

THE  PERENNIAL  RABBIT  I  62 

AN  EMPTY  SADDLE  164 

KINGS  AND  CUBBING  165 

TO  A  FOX-CUB  167 

"THE  LITTLE  FOXES"  169 

JANE A  TERRIER  172 


TIMES    AND    SEASONS 


PAN-PIPES 

PAN — did  you  say  he  was  dead,  that  he'd  gone, 

and  for  good — 
Gone  with  the  Dryads  and  all  of  the  shy  forest 

faces  ? 
Who  was  it  then   plucked  your  sleeve  as  you 

came  through  the  wood, 

What  of  the  whisper  that  waits  in  the  oddest  of 
places  ? 

Pan  of  the  garden,  the  fold, 
Pan  of  the  bird  and  the  beast, 

Kindly,  he  lives  as  of  old, 
He  isn't  dead  in  the  least ! 

I  B 


PAN-PIPES 

Yes,  you  may  find  him   to-day  (how  the  reeds 

twitter  on, 
Tuneful,    as    once    when    he    followed    young 

Bacchus's  leopards) ; 
Stiffer  he  may  be,  perhaps,  since  our  moonlight 

has  shone 
Centuries  long  on  his  goat-horns — old  Pan  of 

the  shepherds  ! 

Brown  are  his  tatters,  his  tan 

Roughened  from  tillage  and  toil, 

Pagan  and  homely,  but  Pan — 
Pan  of  the  sap  and  the  soil  ! 

Find  him,  in  fact,  in  the  Park  when  the  first 

crocus  cowers ; 
Cockney  is  he  when  it  suits  him,  I  know  that 

he  knocks  his 
Crook  at  my  window  at  times  o'er  sixpenn'orth 

of  flowers, 
Gives    me    his    blessing    anew    with    my   fresh 

window-boxes  ! 

2 


PAN-PIPES 

Piping  the  leaf  on  the  larch, 

Piping  the  nymphs  (in  the  Row), 

Piping  a  magic  of  March, 
Just  as  he  did  long  ago  ! 


APRIL    IN    "THE  STREET 

APRIL  of  the  shining  tresses, 

Tearful  mouth,  and  laughing  eyes  ! 
Where  the  budding  wildernesses 
Wait  the  swallow's  glad  surprise, 

Where  the  slender 

Larch's  tender 
Green  is  new  and  neat, 

Most  folk  set  you  ; 

Yet  I've  met  you 
In  Throgmorton  Street ! 

When  the  City  pigeon's  cooing 

Takes  a  soft  domestic  note, 
When  the  daffodil  is  doing 
Duty  in  the  broker's  coat, 

When  through  highway, 

Court  and  byway, 
Gusts  and  sunshine  range, 

And  the  racing 

Clouds  are  chasing 
Over  the  Exchange  ; 


APRIL    IN   "THE   STREET" 

What  if  rates  be  flat  or  firmer, 

What  if  prices  fill  or  back, 
If  I  hear  your  sunny  murmur 
Of  a  four  days'  Easter  slack, 
Of  absconding, 
Vagabonding 

From  the  Street's  grim  aisle, 
While  its  chill  stones, 
Mammon's  millstones, 
Cease  to  grind  awhile  1 


THE    VAGABOND 

THE  wind  is  in  the  wood, 

The  sap  hath  stirred 
Blue  flowers  in  multitude, 

And  song  of  bird  ; 
And,  though  her  day  hath  been, 

Last  summer's  fern 
Is  red  among  the  green, 

For  to  discern  I 

What  scribe  am  I,  I  say, 

To  mope  within, 
Whenas  the  common's  gay 

With  yellow  whin, 
When  sun  and  shower  and  sod 

In  ancient  plan 
Do  praise  the  horned  god 

Arcadian  ? 

For  I  must  be  astir 
With  scrip  and  staff, 
6 


THE   VAGABOND 

To  hear  the  woodpecker 

In  April  laugh, 
Or  go  with  jest  and  rhyme 

A-journeying 
By  Tamis'  flood  from  Prime 

Till  Nones  doth  ring  ! 

Where  lusty  poplars  bend 

The  path  is  free  ; 
I'll  tread  it  with  a  friend 

For  company, 
Then  rest  and  drink  a  glass 

If  they  should  brew 
Ale  at  the  "  Dragon  "  as 

They  used  to  do  ! 


BOND    STREET 

LAVENDER  fresh  are  your  looks 

Bond  Street,  in  May-time  ; 
London  that's  laid  down  her  books, 

London  in  playtime  ; 
Sunlit  eleven  o'clock, 

Jack,  ay,  and  Jill, 
Furbelow,  feather  and  frock, 

Fashion  and  frill  ! 

Lilac'd  and  lawned  go  your  girls, 

So  many  Graces, 
Soft  as  the  dawn,  or  the  pearls 

Caught  in  their  laces  ; 
Lo,  it  was  Celia  laughed 

Silver  afar ; 
Here  breathed  a  violet  waft, 

There  a  cigar  ! 

Men  who  are  fSted  and  fed, 
Folk  who've  come  croppers, 
8 


BOND   STREET 

Men  who  fill  lions  with  lead, 

Surbiton  shoppers  ; 
Thus  does  the  whirligig  go 

Blithe  as  a  bell ; 
Soothly  it  seems  that  your  show 

Runs  rather  well. 

Yet  on  this  Monday  you've  more- 
How  shall  I  term  it  ?  — 

Eclat  than  ever  before, 
Yes,  I  affirm  it ; 

Why  so,  I  hardly  can  say, 
Saving  'tis  that 

Dolly  is  up  for  the  day, 
Getting  a  hat  I 


EUSTON 

Now,  when  the  sportsman  is  flitting  from  mar- 
ket and  Mammon, 

Now,  when  the  courts,  swept  and  garnished, 
stand  silent  and  lone, 

Now,  with  her  challenging  grouse,  and  her  sea- 
silver  salmon, 

August,  of  mountains  and  memories,  comes  to 
her  own  ; 

Would  you  gaze  into  the  crystal,  and  see  the 
long  valleys, 

Braes  of  the  North,  and  the  rivers  that  wander 
between, 

Crags  with  whose  coating  the  tint  of  the 
ptarmigan  tallies  ? 

Come  up  to  Euston  to-night  about  7.15. 

There,  if  you've  got  to  make  shift  with  a  fort- 
night at  Margate, 

Humbly  content  with  the  codling  you  catch  from 
the  pier, 

10 


EUSTON 

Making  the  booth's  mere  mechanical  rabbit  your 

target, 
There, — if  your  "heart's   in  the  highlands  a- 

chasing  the  deer  " — 
Shall  you  slip  past,  all  unchallenged,  the  magical 

wicket, 
Portal    that    opens  at  will  on    to  heather   and 

streams  ; 
No  need  to  bother  for  berth  or  for  booking  of 

ticket, 
When  you  would  sojourn  a  space  in  the  Kingdom 

of  Dreams. 


Come,  then,  and  stand  on  the  platform,  and  see 
through  the  arches, 

Full  of  the  evening  that  flushes  the  chimneys 
with  light, 

Gold-burnished  rails  that  run  out  to  the  pines 
and  the  larches, 

See  the  long  corridor  carriages  busking  for  flight; 

Board  them  in  fancy,  and  then,  when  the  twi- 
light grows  deeper, 

Speed   through   the  moon-mantled  Midlands — 
by  fell  and  by  firth, 
II 


EUSTON 

Wake  with  your  tea,  in  the  smooth-swinging 

rush  of  the  sleeper, 
When  the   white  glamour  of  morning  is  pale 

over  Perth. 

So,  spite  of  luggage  and  crowds  and  of  engines 

that  whistle, 
Over  the  riggings — in  spirit — once  more  you'll 

descry, 
On  to  the  perilous  butts,   where  the    batteries 

bristle, 
Blotting    the    heather,   the    well-driven   coveys 

come  by  ; 
Bracken  and  blaeberry,  murderous  midges  that 

bite  you, 
Summits  that  stand  to  the  sunset,  tremendous 

and  stark, — 
Come  up   to  Euston,  for  lo,  it  has  dreams  to 

requite  you, 
Till  the  last  tail-light  has  twinkled,  and  gone  in 

the  dark  ! 


12 


LAVENDER'S    FOR    LADIES 

LAVENDER'S  for  ladies,  an*  they  grows  it  in  the 

garden  ; 
Lavender's  for  ladies,  and  its  sweet  an*  dry  an' 

blue  j 
But  the  swallows  leave  the  steeple  an'  the  skies 

begin  to  harden, 
For  now's  the  time  o'  lavender,  an'  now's  the 

time  o'  rue  ! 

"  Lavender,  lavender,  buy  my  sweet  lavender," 
All  down  the  street  an  old  woman  will  cry  ; 
But  when  she  trundles 
The  sweet-smellin'  bundles, 
When  she  calls  lavender — swallows  must  fly  ! 


Lavender 's  for  ladies  (Heaven  love  their  pretty 

faces) ; 
Lavender's  for  ladies,  they  can  sniff  it  at  their 

ease, 

13 


LAVENDER'S   FOR   LADIES 

An*  they  puts  it  on  their  counterpins  an'  on  their 

pillow-cases, 
An'  dreams  about  their  true-loves  an'  o'  ships 

that  cross  the  seas  ! 

"  Lavender,  Lavender,  buy  my  sweet  lavender," 
Thus  the  old  woman  will  quaver  an'  call 

All  through  the  city — 

It's  blue  an'  it's  pretty, 
But  brown's  on  the  beech-tree  an'  mist  over  all ! 


Lavender's  for  ladies,  so  they  puts  it  in  their 

presses  ; 
Lavender's  for  ladies,  Joan  an'   Mary,  Jill  an' 

Jane  ; 
So  they  lays  it  in  their  muslins  an'  their  lawny 

Sunday  dresses, 
An*   keeps  'em  fresh    as  April  till    their  loves 

come  'ome  again  ! 

"  Lavender,  lavender,  buy  my  sweet  lavender," 
Still  the  old  woman  will  wheeze  and  will  cry. 
Give  'er  a  copper 
An'  p'raps  it  will  stop  'er, 
For  when  she  calls  lavender  summer  must  die  ! 


POMONA 

THE  hive's  full  of  honey,  the  steading  of  stacks, 
The  stubbles  are  bare  to  the  sunshine  again, 
There's  a  wind  in  the  branches  that  eddies  and 

backs 

That  whispers  of  Autumn,  that  whispers  of  rain. 
The  orchards  are  mellow  with  red  globes  and 

yellow, 

The  matronly  months  of  fulfilment  are  now, 
So    now  must  we  turn  to   their  goddess,    and 

yearn  to 
Pomona,  beloved  of  the  fruit-burdened  bough  ! 


The    swallows  have  gone  from  the  eaves  and 

the  spire, 
From  the  garden  has  faded   the  pomp  of  high 

June, 

But  crimson's  the  maple,  the  woods  are  a-fire, 
And  filling  with   woodcock   beneath   the   new 

moon  ; 

15 


POMONA 

Folk    say  that   she    lingers   with    berry-stained 

fingers 
On    field-paths    that   clamber    by    cottage  and 

croft, 
Pomona,  dear  maiden,  whose  brown  arms  are 

laden 
With  fruit  and  with  fullness  for  cellar  and  loft ! 

Oh,  some  may  build  altars  for  Dian,  and  some 
For  Cyprian  Venus  who  rose  from  the  sea, 
And  some  for  the  Muses  the  learned  and  glum, 
But  no  such  fine  ladies  for  mortals  like  me. 
No    doubt   they  are  charming ;  I'd  find  them 

alarming ; 
And    when  did  they  offer  to  quench  a    man's 

thirst  ? 

Pomona,  provider  of  tanged  autumn  cider, 
Our  lady  of  apples,  she's  easily  first  ! 

•  •  •  •  • 

Since  you'd  offer  libation,  this  method  is  mine — 
Go  up  by  the  footpath  (the  high  roads  I  shun), 
And  ten  miles  of  walking  will  show  you  her 

shrine, 
An  inn  with  a  settle  that  faces  the  sun ; 

16 


POMONA 

And  absent  if  She  be,  an  apple-cheeked  Hebe 
Shall   pour  you  her  nectar  that  winks  and  that 

swirls  ; 
She's  brown  and  she's  smiling,  she's  plump,  she's 

beguiling, 
Perhaps  not  the  goddess,  but  one  of  her  girls  ! 


ROUNDABOUTS  AND  SWINGS 

IT  was  early  last  September  nigh  to  Framlin'am- 

on-Sea 
An*  'twas   Fair-day  come   to-morrow,  an*   the 

time  was  after  tea, 

An'  I  met  a  painted  caravan  adown  a  dusty  lane, 
A  Pharaoh  with   his  waggons  comin'  jolt  an' 

creak  an'  strain  ; 
A  cheery  cove  an*  sunburnt,  bold  o'  eye  and 

wrinkled  up, 
An'  beside  him  on  the  splashboard  sat  a  brindled 

tarrier  pup, 

An'  a  lurcher  wise  as  Solomon  an'  lean  as  fiddle- 
strings 
Was  joggin'  in  the  dust  along  'is  roundabouts 

and  swings. 

"Goo'-day,"  said  'e  ;  Goo'-day,"  said  I ;  "an' 

'ow  d'you  find  things  go, 
An'  what's  the  chance  o'  millions  when  you  runs 

a  travellin'  show  ? " 
18 


ROUNDABOUTS   AND    SWINGS 

"I  find,"  said  'e,  "things  very  much  as  'ow  I've 

always  found, 
For  mostly  they  goes  up  and  down  or  else  goes 

round  and  round." 
Said  'e,   "The  job's   the  very  spit  o'  what  it 

always  were, 
It's  bread  and  bacon  mostly  when  the  dog  don't 

catch  a  'are  ; 
But  lookin'  at  it  broad,  an*   while  it  ain't  no 

merchant  king's, 
What's  lost  upon  the  roundabouts  we  pulls  up 

on  the  swings ! 

"Goo'  luck,"  said'e;    "Goo'   luck,"  said  I; 
"  you've  put  it  past  a  doubt ; 

An'  keep  that  lurcher  on  the  road,  the  game- 
keepers is  out ; " 

'E  thumped  upon  the  footboard  an'  'e  lumbered 
on  again 

To  meet  a  gold-dust  sunset  down  the  owl-light 
in  the  lane  ; 

An'  the  moon  she  climbed  the  'azels,  while  a 
nightjar  seemed  to  spin 

That  Pharaoh's  wisdom  o'er  again,  'is  sooth  of 
lose-and-win  ; 

19 


For  "  up  an'  down  an'  round,"  said  'e,  "  goes  all 

appointed  things, 
An'  losses  on  the  roundabouts  means  profits  on 

the  swings  ! " 


2O 


THE  MUTINY  YEAR 

IN  the  lumber-room  I  rummaged  for  some  papers 

out  of  place, 
When  I  came — among  the  cobwebs — on  a  small 

morocco  case, 

Raised  the  lid  and  saw  a  medal,  on  its  upturned 

side  a  date, 
"  1857  "  graven  on  the  tarnished  laurelled  plate. 

'Twas  enough,  and  ere  I  turned  it  in  its  faded 

velvet  bed 
Quite  a  host  of  recollections  ran  in  riot  through 

my  head  ; 

And  from  out  the  musty  boxes,  loved  of  spider 

and  of  mouse, 
Came  a  half-forgotten  story  of  an  owner  of  the 

house. 

Thus  :  A  dusty  roadway  rises,  and  an  Indian 

sun  beats  down 
Where  an  English  scouting  party  gallop  in  from 

Delhi  Town. 

21 


THE   MUTINY   YEAR 

On  their  flank  the  rebel  rifles  rattle  out  in  sudden 
storms, 

One  full  mile  in  front  is  shelter,  where  a  sweat- 
ing battery  forms. 

On  they  come  in  open  order,  through  the  danger 

zone  they  sweep, 
Save  the  last,   whose    wounded   Waler    pecks, 

and  pitches  in  a  heap, 

Struggles,    shivers    and    lies    quiet,    while    the 

trooper  makes  a  run, 
Tries  to  join  his  comrades  halting  under  cover 

of  the  gun, 

Where  they  breathe  their  sobbing  horses,  and  the 

boy  who's  in  command 
Knocks  the  dust  from  off  his  tunic,  numbers  off 

his  tattered  band, 

Throws  a  glance  along  the  roadway  where  the 

bullets  flick  and  bound, 
Sees    the    distant,    limping    figure,    swings    his 

reeking  Arab  round, 
22 


THE   MUTINY   YEAR 

Swears,  and,  sitting  down  to  gallop,  sends  him 

racing  back  again, 
Gets  the  trooper  up  in  safety,  spite  the  raking 

leaden  rain, 

And  again  defies  the  gauntlet  of  the  glaring  shot- 
swept  road, 

Till  the  Arab  rocks  and  staggers  into  cover  with 
his  load  ! 


This  the  story  I  remembered  of  those  days  by 

Delhi's  gate, 
As  I   read   the   magic    figures   of  the  medal's 

famous  date. 

Then  it  seemed  to  my  romantic  and  unmilitary 

mind, 
That  some  record  of  his  riding  might  be  found 

engraved  behind. 

So  I  turned  it,  and  discovered  that,  some  fifty 

years  ago, 
His   Aunt  Jane  had  scored  with   butter  at  the 

local  county  show. 
23 


SWEEP 

AULD  Sweep,  your  muzzle's  grey 
As  the  rime  at  skreigh  o'  day, 
Ye're  no  fit  to  tak  the  brae, 

Neeps,  nor  ploo — 
You  that  wis  sae  gleg  an'  bauld, 
I'  the  het  an'  i'  the  cauld, — 
Ay,  ye're  wearin'  gey  an'  auld, 

Sweep,  the  noo  ! 

Ye'd  come,  I  ken  it  fine, 
Limpin'  far  ahint  the  line, 
Sittin'  doon  at  dykes,  to  whine 

Sair  perplexed  ; 
Hirplin'  on  aye,  stiff  an'  lame, 
Till  the  Laird  wad  pit  ye  hame, 
Wi'  the  cairt  that  taks  the  game, 

Maybe  vexed  ! 

Ye're  deef  an'  slaw  an'  blin', 
An'  ye're  by  wi'  muir  and  whin, 
-24 


SWEEP 

Pickin'  up  or  drivin'  in, 

Braw  an'  douce  ; 
An'  ye're  a'  rheumatic  pains, 
Gin  the  wet  gets  to  your  banes, 
Sae  ye'll  need  to  bide  your  lanes 

Ben  the  hoose  ! 

The  young  dog's  fleet  an'  spang, 
An'  he'll  rin  the  hale  day  lang, 
Yet  it's  sweir  am  I  to  gang 

Wantin'  you, 
For  traivel  East  or  West, 
Aye  the  auldest  freends  is  best, 
An'  ye're  aulder  than  the  rest, 

Sweep,  the  noo  1 


PATSY 

PUPPY  dog,  rough  as  a  bramble, 

Eyed  like  a  saint, 
Beggar  to  slobber  and  gambol, 

Corky  and  quaint, 

Chasing  your  tail  like  a  fubsy  turbillion, 
Plaguing  a  playmate  with  fuss  of  a  million 

Gnats, 
But  keen  as  a  kestrel 

And  fierce  as  a  stoat  is, 
A-thrill  to  ancestral 
Furies  at  notice 

Of  rats, 
Rats,  little  hound  of  Beelzebub,  rats  I 

And  as  you  sleep  off  a  surfeit, 

Mischief  and  tea, 
Prone  on  the  summer-warm  turf,  it 

Surely  must  be 

(Rapturous  whimper  and  tremulant  twitching), 
Somewhere  or  other  there's  hunting  bewitching  ; 
26 


PATSY 

That's 
More  blessed  than  biscuit ; 

I'll  lay,  through  your  slumbers, 
They  squeak  and  they  frisk  it 
In  shadowy  numbers, 

R-r-rats, 
Rats,  little  hound  of  Beelzebub,  rats  ! 


SOLOMON  AND  THE 
MONKEYS 

APES  and  peacocks  and  almug  and  ivory 

Solomon  sent  for  over  seas, 
And,  if  you  ask  me  the  reason  why  for  he 

Sent  his  shipping  for  such  as  these — 
Peacocks  flaunt  like  an  opal  necklace, 
Figurey  almug's  fair  and  fleckless, 
Ivory's  smooth  and  white  and  speckless 

(Tusks  on  a  plinth  of  gold) ; 
And  the  little  grey  monkeys,  so  wrinkled  wise, 
Little  grey  apes  with  the  twinkling  eyes, 

Puckered,  brown  and  cold, 
'Spite  of  their  lightsome  ways  and  reckless, 
Know  the  wisdom  of  gods  of  old  ! 

Solomon  sat  by  his  garden  palaces 

Seeking  wisdom  of  earth  and  air  ; 
Little  grey  apes,  full  of  mocks  and  malices, 

Chipped  and  chattered  around  his  chair  ; 
Chipped  and  chattered  and  made  grimaces, 
28 


SOLOMON   AND   THE   MONKEYS 

Rubbed  their  backs  and  their  wrinkled  faces, 
Swung  themselves  with  a  score  of  graces 

Through  the  cedar  trees  : 
But    never    their    knowledge    could    Solomon 

catch, 
For,  if  he  asked  them,  they'd  only  scratch, 

Stop  and  scratch  for  fleas  ; 
Then  they'd  rocket  away  in  races, 
Ruffling,  scuffling,  in  twos  and  threes  ! 

So  Solomon  sent  for  Hiram,  King  o'  Tyre — 

Hiram  strode  'neath  the  budding  leaf, 
Purple  vesture  and  golden  ring,  attire 

Fit  indeed  for  a  merchant  chief — 
He  bade  him  watch  the  monkeys  slipping 
Through  the  pomegranate  branches  dipping 
Over  the  fountains  ferned  and   dripping, 

Green  and  clear  and  cold  ; 
And  "  'Tis  excellent  knowledge,"  King  Hiram 

said, 
"  That  keeps  its  learning  inside  its  head  ; 

That's  your  monkey's  gold — 
That's  the  reason  that  sets  them  skipping — 
That's  their  wisdom  of  gods  of  old  ! 


TO  A  BISON 

[After  reading  a  recent  Article  on  his  preservation.'] 

CREATURE,  regards  !     What  though   river  and 
prairie 

Know  not  to-day  the  stampede  of  your  horde, 
See  not  the  maelstrom  of  heads  huge  and  hairy, 

Hear  not  the  thunder  of  hoof  upon  sward  ? 
What  though  the  plough  breaks  the  trails  where 
your  following 

Millions  once  surged  like  the  flow  of  the  tide, 
And  o'er  your  picturesque  places  of  wallowing 

Golden  as  sunrise  the  wheat  stretches  wide  ? 

For  there's  romance  in  your  veriest  mention  ; 

Camp-fires  at  nightfall  and  mountings  at  morn, 
Wigwam  and  war-path  again  claim  attention, 

Hair-breadth  escapes  from  your  perilous  horn  ! 
Yes,  when  we  read  of  you,  boyhood  comes  back 

again, 

(Shade  of  Mayne  Reid  and  of  Ballantyne  too  !) 
30 


TO    A   BISON 

And  we're  repelling  a  Red-skin  attack  again, 
Strewing  the  lawn  with  belligerent  Sioux  ! 


Or,  on  our  mustangs  (the  fire-breathing  devils) 

Madly  we  gallop  with  never  a  pull, 
Close  with  your  mob  on  the  alkali  levels 

(Sometimes  the  garden),  and  drop  the  big  bull  ! 
Back  to  the  waggons  (the  tool-shed  or  rockery), 

Loose  in  the  saddle  to  breakfast  we  ride, 
Naught  of  contemptible  cruet  and  crockery 

Needs  the  proved  plainsman  when  pemmican's 
fried  1 


Will  you  once  more  at  Saskatchewan's  regions 

Thrive,  as  we  hope,  just  as  hardy  and  tough 
As  when  the  red  man  of  old  saw  your  legions 

Blacken  the  plains  from  some  prominent  bluff? 
Will  the  bronzed  cow-puncher  hear,  when  the 
twittering 

Quail  greet  the  morning,  your  truculent  moo 
Boom  down  the  canon  where  snow-peaks  are 
glittering, 

Soaring  aloft  to  the  fathomless  blue  ? 


TO   A   BISON 

Only  your  Totem  can  tell  ;  so  at  present 

Just  let  us  wish  you  the  peace  of  the  hills, 
Salt-lick  and  wallow,  and  pasturage  pleasant, 

Safe  from  the  bullets  of  "  Buffalo  Bills"; 
Few,  half  domestic — the   blood's    not    degene- 
rate— 

Long  may  you  rule  your  park-ranges  at  ease, 
And    here's  regards  to  you,    creature,    at   any 

rate, 

Since  your  mere  mention  brings  dreams  such 
as  these  1 


TO    A    BANK    OF    ENGLAND 
PIGEON 

DESCENDANT  of  the  doves  of  Aphrodite 
Who  fluttered  in  that  type  of  beauty's  train 
And  followed  her  affairs — the  grave,  the  flighty, 
Cooing  in  just  your  calm,  uncaring  strain, 
Whether  she  thought  to  rid  her  of  a  rival, 
Or  bring  some  laggard  lover  to  her  knees  ; — 
I  see  you,  Sir,  the  latter-day  survival 
Of  such  fair  plume'd  satellites  as  these  ! 

"  Bred  in  the  bone,"  perchance  you  know  the 

motto  ! 

And  so  you  doubtless  dream  of  tides  that  lace 
O'er  snow-white  sand   by  some  blue  Paphian 

grotto, 
Or  of  your  sires'  dark,  murmurous,  woodland 

Thrace  ; 

A  penny  whistle  shrilling  'mid  the  traffic 
May  seem  the  goat-foot  god's  own  oaten  trill, 

33  » 


TO  A  BANK   OF  ENGLAND  PIGEON 

Till  you  shall  think  to  hear  the  Maenads  maffic 
In  the  upborne  commotion  of  Cornhill  ! 


And  from  your   perch  where   sooty  winds  are 

striving, 

O  Bank  stock-dove,  as  o'er  Hymettian  bloom 
You  yet  may  watch  the  busy  bees  a-hiving 
The  sweet  and  subtle  fragrance  of  the  Boom, 
And  see,  as  once  before  the  Cyprian  matron, 
The  crowds  that  wait,  obsequious  and  discreet, 
On  her,  your  passionless  and  newer  patron, 
The  stern  Old  Lady  of  Threadneedle  Street  ! 


34 


DAPHNE 

HERE'S  a  tale  from  times  called  olden,  further 

qualified  as  golden, 
When  the  gods  on  high  Olympus  smacked  of 

earth  and  sunburnt  tan, 
With  their  far  from  formal  Dryads,  and  their 

Oreads  and  Naiads, 
And  the  questionable  doings  of  the  forest  Courts 

of  Pan. 

At  the  era   that  I   write  on,  in   the  whole  of 

Greece  no  chiton 
Hid  a  contour  more  alluring  or  revealed  so  fair 

a  cheek 
As  the  one  which  draped  the  figure,  in  its  folded 

classic  rigour, 
Of  a   charming  girl    called  Daphne,  of  a  type 

divinely  Greek. 

I  perhaps  may  also  mention  that  her  eyes  were 

bluest  gentian, 
While   her  hair  was  like  the  sunshine  on  the 

rippling  waves  of  wheat, 
35 


DAPHNE 

And  her  face  supplied  a  thesis  for  the  shepherds' 

pastoral  pieces, 
And  they  laid  their  choicest  garlands  at  her  little 

sandalled  feet. 


But,  in  spite  of  rustic  sheep's  eyes  and  bucolic 

winks  and  deep  sighs, 
Daphne  shunned  alike  the  pastorals  and  posies 

of  the  herds 
For  the  lonely  woodland  places  or  for  high  and 

windy  spaces, 
For  the  music  of  the  mountains  or  the  singing  of 

the  birds. 


And   if  Bacchus  and  his    leopards    roused    the 

neighbouring  nymphs  and  shepherds, 
When  the  Bassarid  and  Maenad  made  the  Vale 

of  Tempe  ring 
With  their  light  and  larky  revels  on  the  misty 

moonlit  levels, 
Well,  I  rather  fancy  Daphne  would  avoid  that 

kind  of  thing. 

36 


DAPHNE 

So  the  empty  weeks  that  passed  her  left  her  cold 

as  alabaster, 
Till  one  dark  day  by  Peneus  where  the  laurel 

thickets  are, 
With  a  certain  shy  ignition,  Daphne  met  a  tall 

musician 
Who  in  fact  was  young  Apollo  who  had  loved 

her  from  afar. 


Now,  although  his  reputation  gave  some  cause 

for  conversation, 
Still  I  think  that  had  she  waited  he'd  have  won 

her  at  his  ease, 
But,  when  he  declared  his  title,  in  alarm  at  his 

recital 
She  forsook  his  further  wooing  for  the  butterflies 

and  bees. 


Like  the  summer  wind  that  passes,  Daphne  fled 

o'er  flowers  and  grasses, 
For  she  heard  the  rushing  footsteps  race  across 

the  scented  thyme, 
37 


DAPHNE 

And  in  sudden  panic  ardour,  she  implored  the 

gods  to  guard  her 
From  the  words  she  vowed  were  nonsense  and 

the  kiss  she  called  a  crime  ! 

And  at  once  her  lithe  form  faltered  and  grew 
rigid,  and  she  altered 

To  a  bush  of  gleaming  laurel  in  its  dark  peren- 
nial green  ; 

And  she  grows  beside  the  river  where  the  rushes 
thrill  and  shiver 

With  an  everlasting  murmur  of  the  things  which 
might  have  been  ! 

And  when  autumn  days  are  dying  and  the  wood 

is  full  of  sighing, 
When  there's  sobbing  in  the  pine  tops  and  a 

murmur  in  the  firs, 

Do  we  tax  imagination  if  we  say  its  lamentation 
Is  our  little  Daphne  crying  for  the  love  that  was 

not  hers  ? 

•  •  •  •  • 

Should  we  want  to  pin  a  moral  to  this  legend  of 

the  laurel 
For  the  use  of  any  debutante  on  reaching  seventeen, 

38 


DAPHNE 

It  is  :    Don't  he  too  unbending,  or  you'll  run 

the  risk  of  ending 
Not  a  laurel,  but  a  wall-flower— which  is  not  an 

evergreen  1 


PROMETHEA 

BEFORE  the  February  day 

Yellows  the  window-pane  once  more, 
I  hear  her  on  her  slipshod  way 

Clatter  outside  my  bedroom  door, 
Unshrined  and  all  unknown  to  fame — 
To  me  a  goddess  just  the  same  ! 

Hers  was  no  columned  Grecian  grove, 
Hers  no  be-ferned  Sicilian  fount ; 

No  shepherd  of  the  white-fleeced  drove 
Adjudged  her  fair  on  Ida's  mount, — 

Nor  did  she  in  the  dark  unbar 

The  dawn  gate  for  the  sun-god's  car  ! 

Yet,  ere  the  laggard  milkman  cries, 
Ill-nurtured  nymph  of  household  care 

She  comes,  poor  child,  with  heavy  eyes 
Adown  the  creaky  lodging  stair, 

To  struggle  with  the  Stygian  gloom 

Of  fog  that  fills  the  dining-room  ! 
4.0 


PROMETHEA 

Coarse-fingered,  grimy  as  to  face 
From  scuttle,  pan,  or  window-sill ; 

Well,  was  the  very  rosiest  Grace 
So  fit  to  merit  man's  good-will 

As  she,  who  comes  in  low  estate, 

Poor  little  drudge,  to  lay  the  grate  ? 

And  when  the  glow  of  kindly  flame 

Leaps  'neath  her  touch  to  warm  and  cheer 

The  cockles  of  the  human  frame, 
Its  little  handmaid  doth  appear, 

For  sheer  humanitarian  worth, 

His  equal,  who  brought  Fire  to  Earth  ! 


A  CLASSICAL  CONTRAST 

I  HAVE  (in  bronze)  a  tiny 

Adventuress  of  Greece, 
A  little  laughing  Phryne, 

Upon  my  mantelpiece, 
And  when  I  see  her  smiling 

Imagination  strays 
Once  more  in  brave,  beguiling, 

Divine  Athenian  days  ! 

Cool  marble  courts  are  ringing 

As  merry  voices  call, 
Where  girls  are  garland-stringing 

For  Springtime's  festival  ; 
In  lanes  of  linked  lightness 

The  roses  rope,  and  flow 
Blood-red  upon  the  whiteness 

Of  chiselled  Parian  snow  ! 

I  have  a  pot  of  pewter, 

And  when  the  firelight  gleams 
42 


A   CLASSICAL   CONTRAST 

It  too  will  turn  transmuter 
Of  commonplace  to  dreams. 

Then,  though  the  year's  at  ember 
Once  more  high  June  doth  reign 

And  I  in  dreams  remember, — 
And  win  the  thing  again  ! 

On  turf  of  headland  thymy, 

Where  brine-washed  breezes  strive, 
I  lay  the  subtle  stymie, 

I  drive  the  spanking  drive  ; 
I  see  the  grey  tides  sleeping, 

I  watch  the  grey  gulls  wheel, 
Till  through  the  dusk  come  creeping 

The  lights  of  distant  Deal  ! 

0  pewter  and  O  Phryne, 
Since  both  of  you  may  bring 

Your  visions  blue  and  briny 
Or  garlanded  of  Spring  : 

1  welcome  you  together 

Upon  my  mantelpiece, 
And  love  both  magics,  whether 
Of  England  or  of  Greece  1 

43 


A  SONG  OF  SYRINX 

LITTLE  lady,  whom  'tis  said 
Pan  tried  very  hard  to  please, 

I  expect  before  you  fled 

'Neath  the  wondering  willow-trees, 

Ran  away  from  his  caress 

In  the  Doric  wilderness, 

That  you'd  led  him  on  a  lot, 

Said  you  would,  and  then  would  not : 

No  way  that  to  treat  a  man, 

Little  lady  loved  of  Pan  ! 

I  expect  you'd  dropped  your  eyes 

(Eyes  that  held  your  stream's  own  hue, 

Kingfishers  and  dragon-flies 
Sparkling  in  their  ripple  blue), 

And  you'd  tossed  your  tresses  up, 

Yellow  as  the  cool  king-cup, 

And  you'd  dimpled  at  his  vows 

Underneath  the  willow  boughs, 

Ere  you  mocked  him,  ere  you  ran, 

Little  lady  loved  of  Pan  ! 
44 


A   SONG   OF   SYRINX 

So  they've  turned  you  to  a  reed, 
As  the  great  Olympians  could, 

You've  to  bow,  so  they've  decreed, 

When  old  Pan  comes  through  the  wood, 

You've  to  curtsey  and  to  gleam 

In  the  wind  and  in  the  stream 

(Which  are  forms,  I've  heard  folks  say, 

That  the  god  adopts  to-day), 

And  we  watch  you  bear  your  ban, 

Little  lady  loved  of  Pan  ! 

For  in  pleasant  spots  you  lie 

Where  the  lazy  river  is, 
Where  the  chasing  whispers  fly 

Through  the  beds  of  bulrushes, 
Where  the  big  chub,  golden  dun, 
Turns  his  sides  to  catch  the  sun, 
Where  one  listens  for  the  queer 
Voices  in  the  splashing  weir, 
Where  I  know  that  still  you  can 
Weave  a  spell  to  charm  a  man, 
Little  lady  loved  of  Pan  ! 


45 


AN    URBAN    ECLOGUE 

(Coronation  Year) 

STREPHON  : 

How  favoured  are  we,  Phyllis, 

That  ours  is  not  the  age 
When  rustic  Amaryllis 

Enjoyed  a  rustic  rage  ; 
Her  freckles  and  her  frolics, 

Her  stupid  swains  we  know — 
I've  read  their  old  bucolics 

(I  had  to  years  ago  !). 

PHYLLIS  : 

/  haven't  (thanks  to  heaven, 

And  Fraillein's  easy  yoke) ; 
But  still  I  fancy,  Strephon, 

I  know  your  tiresome  folk  : 
Their  compliments — becowslipped, 

Their  idylls — of  the  sheep, 
Their  wreaths — that  o'er  the  brows  slipped 

In  unbecoming  sleep  ! 
46 


AN  URBAN   ECLOGUE 

STREPHON  : 

I  picture  you  reclining 

With  cricked  and  aching  spine, 
To  catch  the  pan-pipes  whining 

Beneath  some  draughty  pine  ; 
You,  Phyllis,  with  your  brooches 

And  Paris  frocks  to-day 
Supreme  among  the  coaches, 

Resplendent  at  the  play  ! 

PHYLLIS  : 

I  simply  can't  imagine 

You  on  the  classic  lawns, 
With  no  Enclosure  badge  on, 

Amid  the  festive  fauns  : 
Or  lounging,  say,  astride  of 

A  log  on  summer  nights, 
You,  Strephon,  you  the  pride  of 

The  window-seat  at  White's  ! 

STREPHON  : 

They  knew  not  bands  and  cities, 
Nor  streets  in  bunting  bound  ; 
47 


AN   URBAN   ECLOGUE 

Their  bunting  chirped  his  ditties 
When  Pan  came  barging  round  ; 

For  in  their  futile,  far  land, 
The  only  crownings  were 

When  someone  dumped  a  garland 
On  someone  else's  hair  ! 


PHYLLIS  : 

Yet  sometimes,  when  the  dawning 

Comes  o'er  the  chimneys  tall, 
I  find  I'm  almost  yawning 

Half  through  some  ripping  ball ; 
It's  odd,  but  all  one  knows  is 

Just  then  that  such  things  please 
As  hedges  and  wild-roses 

And  buttercups  and  bees  ! 


STREPHON  : 

Why  not  then  ?     /'//  have  fancies  ; 

I,  too,  would  botanize 
And  pick — I  think  they're  pansies — 

The  blue  things  like  your  eyes  : 
48 


AN   URBAN   ECLOGUE 

Or  down  the  Henley  reaches 
The  crank  canoe  impel, 

To  lunch  'neath  Shiplake  beeches- 
If  you  were  there  as  well  ! 

PHYLLIS  : 

This  much  then  for  conclusion, 

I'd  say  small  difference  is 
'Twixt  tommy-rot  effusion 

And  old  absurdities — 
The  sort  your  shepherd-sillies 

Fired  off  in  fatuous  flow 
For  rustic  Amaryllis, 

A  million  years  ago  ! 


49 


THE  SCARAB 

SPOIL  of  the  tomb  of  kings, 

Snatched  from  the  shadows  solemn, 
Where  the  wide  falcon-wings 

Brood  o'er  the  pylon's  column, 
Scarab  (oh,  blue  of  the  artist  Egyptian), 
How  goes  your  curious  carven  inscription  ? 

Emblem  of  Life  and  Sun, 

How  do  its  letters  run  ? 
Spells  it  of  magic  and  censers  a-swing 
Ere  you  were  vowed  to  my  Lilian's  ring  ? 

Tells  it  of  girlish  throng, 

Homage  and  graceful  pose,  if 
Pharaoh  should  chance  along, 

Pharaoh  who  knew  not  Joseph  ? 
Down  the  dim  coolness  of  corridors  going, 
Out  to  the  noon  on  his  rose  gardens  glowing ; 

Where  by  the  fish-pond's  brink 

Ibises  coral-pink 

Stood  in  a  sacred  and  somnolent  row, 
Ages  and  ages  and  ages  ago  ? 
50 


THE    SCARAB 

Spoil  of  the  pyramid 

Where  the  old  shadows  linger, 
Now  as  a  mascot  slid 

On  to  a  dainty  finger  ; 
If  I  might  fathom  the  secret  you  fetter, 
Hazard  each  cryptical,  long-ago  letter, 

Emblem  of  Life  that's  gone, 

I  would  say,  "  Love  lives  on  '* : 
Surely  a  proper  and  plausible  thing, 
Since  you  are  vowed  to  my  Lilian's  ring  ! 


AWA'   FRAE  COWRIE 

(Lowland  Love-Song) 

SHE  wis  never  that  young,  she  wis  never  just 

that  bonny, 
An'  it's  nae  the  bawbees,  for  she's  no  had  onjr 

This  seventeen  year, 

Yet  it's  oh  but  I  'm  sweir 
Tae  pairt  frae  ma  jo  Annie  Powrie  ; 

She's   fair   past    wurk, — though    she's    but 
fufty-three, 

An'  they've  taen  her  till  the  infirmarie, 

An'  wha's  tae  rax  me  ma  dish  o'  tea, 
When  she's  awa'  frae  Gowrie  ? 

I've  pawned  her  puckle  gear,  an'  I've  drinkt 

her  bit  beddin', 
An'  the  auld  black  goun  that  she  wore  tae  wir 

weddin', 

An'  her  stuffit  chair, 
Still  it's  eh  but  I'm  sair 
Tae  twine  frae  ma  jo  Annie  Powrie  ; 
52 


AW  A'  FRAE   COWRIE 

The  doctor  says  that  she's  gey  far  through, 
But  wha's  tae  dig  the  croft  i'  the  noo, 
An'  wha's  tae  bed  me  the  nichts  I'm  fou, 
When  she's  awa'  frae  Gowrie  ? 

She  was  wattit  tae  the  bane  at  the  tattie-sawin' 

I'  the  spring  o'  the  year  when  the  win*  wis 

blawin' 

O*  a  cauld-rife  airt, 
An'  it's  wae  is  ma  hairt 

Tae  twine  frae  ma  jo  Annie  Powrie  ; 

They're  tellin'  aye  that  she's  like  tae  dee, 
Nae  an  unco'  thing  as  ye'll  agree, 
But  wha's  tae  fend  for  the  pig  an'  me, 

Gin  she's  awa'  frae  Gowrie  ? 


53 


A  JEWELLED  SELL 

PALE  pearls 
Are  best  for  girls, 
And  queenly  diamond  stones 
Their  charming  chaperons 

Do  most  befit  ; 
But  this  fierce  ruby,  heart's  blood  of  the  East, 

What  does  it  want,  I  ask  you,  west  of  Suez  ? 
Down  the  dim  centuries  of  fight  and  feast 
It's  blazed  (no  doubt)  on  many  a  Rajah-rou6's 

Kingly  and  costly  kit  ; 
Balefully  still  it  blinks  of  hate  and  harm, 
An  asp  upon  my  Amy's  rose-white  arm  ! 

What  tales 
Of  long  jezails, 
And  grim  zenana-bars, 
And  cruel  scimitars 
Could  it  portray  ! 

Torture,  intrigue  it  knows,  and  cut-and-thrust 
Of  companies,  bow-string  and  poisoned  potion, 
54 


A   JEWELLED   SELL 

And  elephants  soft-padding  through  the  dust, 
And  years  and  years  of  killing  and  commotion. 

What,  Amy,  did  you  say  ? 
"Talk   about  something  that  I    understand"? 

Why,  quite. 
A  Capetown  garnet,  is  it  ?     Oh,  all  right  ! 


5.5 


BLUE  ROSES 

SHEPHERD  in  delicate  Dresden  china, 
Loitering  ever  the  while  you  twine  a 

Garland  of  oddly  azure  roses, 
All  for  a  shepherdess  passing  fair  ; 
Poor  little  shepherdess  waiting  there 

All  the  time  for  your  china  posies, 
Posies  pale  for  her  jet-black  hair  ! 

Doesn't  she  wait  (oh,  the  anxious  glances  !) 
Flowers  for  one  of  your  stately  dances, 

A  crown  to  finish  a  dainty  toilette, 
(Haven't  the  harps  just  now  begun, 
Minuets  'neath  a  china  sun  ?) 

Doesn't  she  dread  that  the  dust  may  soil  it, 
When,  oh,  when  will  the  boy  be  done  ? 

Summer  and  winter  and  still  you  linger, 
Laggard  lover  with  lazy  finger, 

Never  your  little  maid's  wreath  completing, 
56 


BLUE    ROSES 

Still  half-strung  are  its  petalled  showers 
Must  she  wait  all  her  dancing  hours, 

Wait  in  spite  of  her  shy  entreating, 
Wait  for  ever  her  azure  flowers  ? 


57 


THE  ROAD 

"  Now  where  are   ye  goin',"  ses  I,  "  wid  the 

shawl 

An'  cotton  umbrella  an'  basket  an'  all  ? 
Would  ye  not  wait  for  McMullen's  machine, 
Wid  that  iligant  instep  befittin'  a  queen  ? 

Oh,  you  wid  the  wind-soft  grey  eye  wid 

a  wile  in  it, 
You  wid  the  lip  wid  the  troublesome  smile 

in  it, 
Sure,  the   road's  wet,  ivery  rain-muddied 

mile  in  it " 

"  Ah,  the  Saints'lt  be  kapir?  me  petticoats  dean  /" 

"  But,"  ses  I,  "  would  ye  like  it  to  meet  Clancy's 

bull, 
Or  the  tinks  poachin'   rabbits  above  Slieve-na- 

coul  ? 

An'  the  ford  at  Kilmaddy  is  big  wid  the  snows, 
An'  the  whisht  Little  People    that    wear    the 

green  close, 

58 


THE   ROAD 

They'd  run  from  the  bog  to  be  makin1  a 

catch  o'  ye, 
The  king  o'  them's  wishful  o'  weddin'  the 

match  o'  ye, 
'T would  be  long,  if  they  did,  ere  ye  lifted 

the  latch  o'  ye " 

"  What  fairy's  to  touch  her  that  sings  as  she  goes!" 

"  Ah,    where  are  ye   goin',"  ses  I,  "  wid  the 

shawl, 

An'  the  grey  eyes  a-dreamin'  beneath  it  an'  all  ? 

The  road  by  the  mountain's  a  long  one,  depend 

Ye'll  be  done  for,  alannah,  ere  reachin'  the  end  ; 

Ye'Il  be  bate  wid  the  wind  on  each'  back- 

breakin'  bit  on  it, 
Wet  wid  the  puddles  and  lamed  wid  the 

grit  on  it, — 
Since  lonesome  ye're  layin'  yer  delicut  fit 

on  it " 

"  Sure  whin's  a  road  lonesome  that's  stepped  wid  a 
friend"? 

That's  stepped  wid  a  friend  ? 
Who  did  Bridgy  intend  ? 

Still  'twas  me  that  went  wid  her  right  on  to  the 
end! 

59 


THE  ARTISTS 

BLUE  as  a  mile  of  pansies  are  the  seas  that  circle 

the  shores, 
Circle   the   shores  of  Fairyland   and   the   high, 

enchanted  ways 
Where  the  great  grim  sea-green  dragons  guard 

the  jade  and  the  amber  doors, 
And  the  Queen  of  the  Fairies'  peacocks  walk 
under  the  crimson  mays  ; 
Oh,  what,  I  wonder, 

Could  look  more  gay 
Than  a  peacock  under 
A  crimson  may  ? 

For  that   is   the  home  of  colour  and  many  a 

wizard  hue, 
'Tis  there  they  deck  the  rainbow  ere  he's  pinned 

against  the  rain, 
And    squeeze    the    tubes    for    the    pictures    of 

"  things  too  good  to  be  true," 
And  make  the  gilt  for  the  turrets  of  castles  we 

build  in  Spain  ; 

60 


THE   ARTISTS 

And  what's  more  gilded, 
This  world  amid, 

Than  castles  builded 
Near  old  Madrid  ? 


For  we,  we're  all  ot  us   artists  with  plans  and 

canvases 
Of  excellent    Spanish    castles  with    turrets   all 

about, 
With    angels    in    the    corners,    romaunts,    and 

symphonies 

Of  things  as  we  would   have  them   did   every 
dream  work  out ; 

And  such  were  duller, 

You'll  understand, 
If  robbed  of  colour 
From  Fairyland  ! 


So  we  must  stroke   the  dragons  and  tickle  their 

shiny  scales, 
And  they  shall  grin  politely  and  we  shall  pass 

along, 

61 


THE    ARTISTS 

Where  under  the   crimson    may-trees  the  pea- 
cocks spread  their  tails, 

To  dip  our  brushes  in  magic  and  echoes  of  fairy 
song; 

And  find  us  Fancy 

Our  daubs  to  deck, 
With  tints  of  pansy 
And  peacock's  neck  1 


GOLD  ! 

["  It  is  announced  from  Vancouver  that  the  rumours  of  a 
big  strike  of  gold  at  Bitter  Creek  have  been  confirmed." — 
Daily  Paper.] 

GOLD  !  'mid  the  North's  magnetic  hush, 

They've  struck  it  in  the  good  old  manner, 
Not  the  beringed  promoter's  gush, 

No  swank  of  your  prospectus-planner, 
But  the  true  kind  that  played  its  part 

With  bowies,  "  guns,"  and  forty-niners, 
When  (by  the  magic  of  Bret  Harte) 

You  found  no  life  excelled  the  miner's  I 

How  often  have  you,  beat  but  game, 

Your  old  red  shirt  without  a  collar, 
Toiled  at  the  stiff,  abandoned  claim 

You'd  purchased  with  your  last  half  dollar  ; 
Sure-armed,  you  swung  your  pick  aloft 

Through  days  of  doubt  and  hours  of  danger, 
Then,  lo  !  the  vein — dull,  yellowy,  soft, 

And  —  "  Sort    o'    think    you'd    struck    it, 
Stranger!" 

63 


GOLD  ! 

And  up  the  pass,  through  pine  and  snow, 

You've  heard  the  river  in  the  canon 
Shouting  a  thousand  foot  below, 

The  timber-wolf  your  sole  companion  ; 
With  aching  back  you've  faced  the  hill, 

You've  searched  each  likely  ledge  and  dug  it, 
And  whooped  the  eagle  from  his  kill 

When  you  acclaimed  a  ten-ounce  nugget  ! 


You've  swaggered  into  camp  at  night, 

Bronzed,  bold,  a  devil  of  a  fellow  ; 
You've  seen  the  windy  dark  alight, 

Stern  faces  round  the  fire  grown  mellow  j 
And,  where  the  fanged  Sierras  rise 

Up  to  the  moon's  cold  flooding  crystal, 
You've  lain  and  watched  the  opal  skies, 

Your  head  upon  a  loaded  pistol  ! 


Tap  of  the  pick  !  it's  waked,  in  sooth, 
The  kindly,  half-forgotten  fairies, 

Friends  of  the  camping  fires  of  youth 

That  shone  on  Indians,  trails,  and  prairies  ; 
64 


GOLD! 

Whose  sparks  still  through  the  darkness  fall 
In  flashing  showers  of  gold  unstinted, 

The  purest  metal  of  them  all, 

A  finer  ore  than  e'er  was  minted  ! 


TO  AN  AZTEC  IDOL 

LITTLE  idol  of  gold 

With  your  legs  interlaced, 
And  your  fingers  a-fold 

On  your  horrible  waist, 

Say,  of  what  do  you  dream  as  you  sit  there  and 
Brood  with  a  simper  unchaste  ? 

You're  some  six  inches  high, 

Yet  the  devils  that  lurk 
In  the  slant  of  your  sly 

And  malevolent  smirk, 
Seem  to  hint  at  the  evil  of  ages,  left  latent, 

— But  ready  to  work  ! 

Do  the  days  of  your  state 

Come  again  as  you  drowse  ? 
Do  the  crowds  at  your  gate 
Offer  incense  and  vows  ? 

Are  your  hand-maidens  slim  young  Princesses, 
with 

Emeralds  bound  on  their  brows  ? 
66 


TO   AN   AZTEC   IDOL 

Does  the  trend  of  your  dream 

To  old  rituals  yearn  ? 
Does  the  victim's  wild  scream 

And  the  sunshine  return, 
With  the  Priests,  and  the  blood-dabbled  altars,  the 

Uplifted  casket  and  urn  ? 

Do  you  see  in  your  sleep 

Proud  hidalgos  of  Spain, 
And  the  galleons  that  leap 

From  the  blue  of  the  Main, 
The  sack  of  the  temple,  the  treasure, 

The  plumes  and  the  rapiers  again  ? 
•  •  •  •  • 

Dead,  dead  are  the  days 

When  you  pranked  it,  and  preened, 
And — from  altar-fire  blaze 

To  my  chimney  demeaned — 
You  sit  there  a-simper  o'er  long  ago 

Lusts,  little  god, — little  fiend  ! 


RICHMOND  PARK 

OH,  have  you  been  to  Richmond  of  a  windy 

April  morning, 
When  the  loose  white  clouds  are  flying  and  the 

blue  is  washed  and  clean, 
When  the  beeches  on  the  hill-top  don  a  diffident 

adorning 
And  the    river  twines    its    silver    through    the 

shimmer  of  the  green, 

When  the  cuckoo  flings  his  notes 
And  the  thrushes  crack  their  throats 
And  the  boatmen  at  the  eyot  start  a-varnishing 

their  boats  ? 

Have  you  seen  its  gallant  vistas  in  the  splendour 

of  a  June  day, 
Oh,  the  rhododendron  thickets  and  the  water 

and  the  wood  ! 
When  the  stags  are  still  in  velvet  and  across  the 

hush  of  noon-day 
Comes  the  throbbing  of  the  motors  past  the  Gate 

of  Robin  Hood, 

68 


RICHMOND   PARK 

When  the  bracken  by  the  ponds 
First  unfolds  its  crinkled  fronds 
And   the    dragon-flies   are    dancing    round    the 
slender  willow  wands  ? 


Have  you  been  to  royal   Richmond  when  the 
year  is  growing  mellow, 

And  October,  mild  and  fruitful,  on  its  woodland 
sets  her  mark, 

When  the  footpath — of  her  bounty — has  a  carpet 
red  and  yellow, 

And  the  great  harts  roar  a  challenge  as  the  twi- 
light meets  the  dark, 

And  at  half-past  five  or  so 

There  are  lights  that  flash  and  glow, 

Thrilling  upward  in  the  quiet  out  of  Kingston 
down  below  ? 


Oh,  have  you  been  to  Richmond  when  the  days 

are  short  and  chilly, 
When  a  red  December  sunset  has  been  swallowed 

in  the  fog, 

69 


RICHMOND   PARK 

When  the  wanderer,  belated  in  the  frosty  air  and 

stilly, 

Sees  the  tree-trunks  full  of  goblins,  and  he  whistles 
up  his  dog, 

And  turns  to  look  again 
At  the  firelight  on  the  pane, 
In  the  keeper's  cottage  window,  going  home  by 
Clarence  Lane  ? 


If  you've  not,  then,  and  would  know  it,  with  its 

pools  and  forest  spaces, 
Take    this    gratis    introduction,    very    willingly 

bestowed, 
And  a  trifling  thing  in   train-fares  will   acquaint 

you  with  its  graces, 
Or  you'll  hear  its  Pan-pipe  music  by  a  'bus  from 

Brompton  Road. 

If  a  Dryad  you  should  see 
And  you  care  to  mention  me, 
I  shouldn't  be  astonished  if  she  asked  you  in  to 

tea! 


70 


AS    IN   THE    BEGINNING 

IN    the  very  far  beginning,  when  our    fathers 
lived  in  caves, 

And  the  glacier  rolled  and  shuddered  where  to- 
day you  roll  the  lawn, 

Then     the    forests    and    the    rivers,    and    the 
mountains  and  the  waves 

Were  the   haunts  of  troll  and  kelpie,  gnome, 
pishogue  and  leprechaun  ; 

Long  ago — oh,  long  ago, 
Little  feet  went  to  and  fro 

In    the   hushed  and    solemn    moonrise,   or  the 
silence  of  the  dawn  : 

Weren't  they  just  the  prowling  otter  or  the  fox- 
cub  or  the  fawn  ? 


If  the   panting   hunters   plodded   on  the   hairy 

mammoth's  trail, 
Till    the    flint-tipped    lances    laid    him   in  the 

twilight  stiff  and  stark, 

71 


AS   IN   THE   BEGINNING 

If  the  yelling  tribesmen  lingered  at  the  stranding 
of  the  whale 

Till  the  sledges  were  benighted  in  the   demon- 
haunted  dark, 

Each  untutored  scalp  would  rise 
At  mysterious  woodland  cries, 

And  they'd  glance  across  their  shoulders  with  a 
shudder  and  a  «  Hark  !" 

Though  'twas  probably  the  screech  owl  or  some 
startled  roebuck's  bark  ! 


If  the  neolithic  lover  in  a  neolithic  June 

Met  at  nightfall,  'neath  the  hawthorn  bough,  a 

neolithic  maid, 
Then,   despite  the   ministrations  of  a  full  and 

friendly  moon, 

As  it  caught  the  clumps  of  blossom  in  a  net  of 
light  and  shade, 

They  would  hear  with  knocking  knees, 
Come  a  kind  of  grunting  wheeze, 
For  they'd   think  some  spook  had  spied  them, 

and  their  cheeks  would  match  their  jade  ; 
But  they  never  saw  the  badger  rooting  truffles 
in  the  glade  ! 

72 


AS   IN   THE   BEGINNING 

Go  you  out  along  the  chalk  downs,  and  you'll  see 

our  fathers  yet 
(Cairn  upon  the  thymy  hill-top,  tumulus  of  tribal 

kings  !) 
Yes,  and  in  the  sun- warmed  quarry  find  perhaps 

an  amulet, 
Such  as  kept  them  from  the  kobold,  or  the  beat 

of  goblin  wings  ; 

Then  your  sympathy  shall  stray 
To  our  sires  of  feebler  clay, 
With  their  little  local  godlings  and  their  foolish 

fairy  rings, 
Though  you  know — for  Science  says  so — that 

there  never  were  such  things  ! 


For  yourself — you've  sometimes  hurried  when 

the  mayfly  cease  to  rise, 
With  your   rod  inside   its  cover  and  your  cast 

around  your  hat, 
When   the  beetles  boom  like   bullets,  and  the 

bats  are  hawking  flies, 
And  the  night  is  in  the  meadows,  and  the  mists 

are  on  the  flat, 

n 


AS   IN   THE   BEGINNING 

Past  some  darkling  belt  of  pine, 
While  you've  felt  all  up  your  spine 
Run  a  sort  of  icy  shiver,  and  your  heart's  gone 

pit-a-pat — 

Yet  'twas  only  just  the  night-jar,  just  the  plopping 
water-rat  I 


74 


MULL 

TELL  me  not  of  Grecian  isles 
And  a  charm  that's  olden, 
Brooding  on  the  turquoise  blue 
That  the  Argo's  oar-banks  knew, 
Where  a  sun-steeped  ease  beguiles, 
Far  away,  and  golden  ! 

There's  a  Western  isle  I  know, 
Where  the  last  land  merges 
In  the  grey  and  outer  seas, 
Southward  from  the  Hebrides, 
And  through  old  sea-caverns  go 
Old  Atlantic  dirges  ! 

Grey  it  is,  and  very  still 
In  the  August  weather  ; 

Grey  the  basking  seals  that  flock 

On  their  jaggdd  lift  of  rock  ; 

Starkly  heaves  a  waste  of  hill 
Grey,  untouched  of  heather  ! 
75 


MULL 

Grey  streams  show,  by  cliff  and  hag, 

Pools,  and  runs  that  riot, 
There  the  great  grey  sea-trout  rise 
Splashing  silver  at  your  flies, 
There  the  grey  crow  from  the  crag 
Croaks  across  the  quiet ! 

That's  the  place  where  I  would  be, 
Where  the  winds  blow  purely  ; 
For  I  hear,  by  Fancy  blest, 
All  the  Fairies  of  the  West 
Sound  their  silver  pipes  for  me — 
Horns  of  Elfland  surely  1 


76 


THE    LITTLE  GHOST 

BROAD,  high  yew  hedges  flank  the  flowers,  and 

border 
An  old,  smooth  lawn  where,   fashioned  grimly 

stiff, 
Two     knights — in     close-clipped     box — keep 

ancient  order, 
O'er  shaven  dragon,  hound  and  hippogriff  j 

And  there, 

When  the  June  air 

At  dusk  is  cool  and  fair, 

And  the  great  roses  strengthen  on  their  stalks, 
Down  the  long  path,  beset 
With  heaven-scented,  haunting  mignonette, 

The  gardeners  say, 

A  little  grey 

Ghost-lady  walks  ! 

I  haven't  seen  her,  haven't  heard  her  legend, 
Pale  little  shade,  only  the  rumour  tells 

77 


THE  LITTLE   GHOST 

That  'tis  her  wont  to  wander  to  the  hedge-end, 
And  vanish  near  the  Canterbury  Bells  ; 

And  so 

I  do  not  know 

What  sends  her  to  and  fro — 
Murder,  may  be,  or  broken  heart,  or  gold. 
I  like  to  fancy  most 
That  she  is  just  some  little  lady's  ghost 

Who  loved  her  flowers 

And  quiet  hours 

In  Junes  of  old  ! 


COTTAGE    GARDEN    PRAYER 

LITTLE  garden  gods, 

You  of  good  bestowing, 

You  of  kindly  showing 
Mid  the  pottings  and  the  pods, 
Watchers  of  geranium  beds, 

Pinks  and  stocks  and  suchlike  orders, 
Rose,  and  sleepy  poppy-heads — 

Bless  us  in  our  borders, 
Little  garden  gods  ! 

Little  garden  gods, 

Bless  the  time  of  sowing, 

Watering  and  growing  ; 
Lastly,  when  our  sunflower  nods, 
And  our  rambler's  red  array 

Waits  the  honey-bee  her  labours, 
Bless  our  garden  that  it  may 

Beat  our  next-door  neighbour's, 
Little  garden  gods  ! 


79 


BALLADE   OF  AUGUST 

Now,  when  the  street-pent  airs  blow  stale 

A  longing  stirs  us  as  of  yore 
To  take  the  old  Odyssian  trail, 

To  bend  upon  the  trireme's  oar 

For  isl£d  stream  and  hill-bound  shore  ; 
To  lay  aside  the  dirty  pen 

For  summer's  blue  and  golden  store 
'Neath  other  skies,  'mid  stranger  men  ! 

Then  let  the  rover's  call  prevail 

That  opes  for  us  the  enchanted  door, 

That  bids  us  spread  the  silken  sail 

For  bays  o'er  which  the  seabirds  soar, 
And  foam-flecked  rollers  pitch  and  roar, 

Where  nymph  maybe,  and  mermaiden, 
Come  beachward  in  the  moon-rise  hoar, 

'Neath  other  skies,  'mid  stranger  men  ! 

Blue-eyed  Calypsos,  Circes  pale 

(The  sage  who  shuns  them  I  abhor), 
80 


BALLADE   OF   AUGUST 

These — for  a  fortnight — shall  not  fail 
To  thrill  the  heart's  susceptive  core, 
To  bind  us  with  their  ancient  lore, 

Who  rather  like  to  listen  when 

Sweet-lipped  the  sirens  voice  their  score, 

'Neath  other  skies,  'mid  stranger  men  ! 

ENVOY 

Masters,  who  seek  the  minted  ore, 
It's  only  August  now  and  then, 

Ah,  take  the  Wanderer's  way  once  more, 
'Neath  other  skies,  'mid  stranger  men  ! 


BALLADE    OF    THE    FOREST 
IN    SUMMER 

FRA  Cruachan  tae  Aberdeen 

The  hinds'll  move  their  calfies  soon 
Up  frae  the  bracken's  bonnie  green 

To  yon  blue  heights  that  float  aboon  ; 
Nae  snaws  the  tops  an'  corries  croon  ; 

Crags  whaur  the  eagle  lifts  his  kills 
Blink  i'  the  gowden  efternoon  ; 

It's  summer  noo  in  a*  the  hills  ! 

The  heather  sleeps  frae  morn  till  e'en 

Braw  in  her  reed-an'-purple  goon  ; 
Sax  weeks  it  wants  or  stags  be  clean 

An'  gang  wi  thickenin'  manes  an'  broun 
Waitin'  the  cauld  October  moon 

When  a'  the  roarin'  brae-face  fills — 
Ye've  heard  yon  wild,  wanchancy  tune  ? 

It's  summer  noo  in  a'  the  hills  ! 

Yet  blaws  a  soupin'  breeze  an'  keen  ; 
We're  wearit  for  it  whiles  in  toun, 
82 


BALLADE   OF   FOREST   IN    SUMMER 

An'  I  wad  be  whaur  I  hae  been 
In  Autumn's  blast  or  heats  o'  June 

Up  on  the  quiet  forest  groun', 

Friens  wi'  the  sun,  or  shoor  that  chills, 

Watchin'  the  beasts  gang  up  an'  doon  ; 
It's  summer  noo  in  a'  the  hills  ! 

ENVOY 

Mountains  o'  deer,  ye  ca'  a  loon 
Fra  streets  an'  sic-like  stoury  ills 

Wi'  thankfu'  heart  an'  easy  shoon  ; 
It's  summer  noo  in  a*  the  hills  ! 


BALLADE   OF    FANCY   FAIR 

IN  April  hours 

Its  booths  we  knew 
Uplift  'mid  flowers 

Untouched  of  rue. 
'Twas  then  we  drew 

The  magic  ware 
From  tents  of  blue 

At  Fancy  Fair  ! 

Its  kindly  bowers 

For  lovers  due, 
From  chilly  showers 

They  kept  us  two  ; 
Lest  wetted  through, 

We'd  ceased  to  care 
For  Cupid's  brew 

And  Fancy  Fair  ! 

Still  hath  it  dower 
When  life's  askew, 
84 


BALLADE   OF   FANCY   FAIR 

A  gentle  power, 

A  kind  ado, 
For  me  and  you 

Who  still  may  share 
The  rainbow  view 

Of  Fancy  Fair  ! 

ENVOY 

Princess,  anew 

We'll  wander  there, 

For  dreams  are  true 
In  Fancy  Fair  ! 


THE  EVENING  RISE 

LITTEN  with  lots  and  lots  of  little  moons, 
Broods  o'er  the  bosky  bank  the  guelder-rose  ; 
She  watches  by  the  river  as  it  goes, 
Knowing  its  whispered  secrets  and  its  runes, 
And  that  it's  useless  in  these  afternoons 
Of  midsummer  ;  I  hardly  do  suppose 
A  trout  had  stirred  just  then  for  all  our  throws 
And  feathered  lures  begirt  of  silk  cocoons. 

But  now  hath  come  the  coolth  and  kindliness 
Of  eve,  and  we  may  get  to  work  again  ; 
See,  there's  a  bulge,  and  there  a  fish  came  up, 
And  we  anon  shall  levy  toll  and  cess — 
A  brace  mayhap  ;  and  still  before  the  train 
Have  time  for  supper  and  a  cider-cup  ! 


86 


TO  A  MACAW 

FOWL  of  the  nightmare  visage,  baldly  white, 
Your  evil  orb  fulfilled  of  all  the  sly 
Inherent  devilries  of  days  gone  by, 
Ere  from  the  main  upswept  the  Spaniards'  might, 
When  your  familiar  sires  would  shriek  delight, 
Perched  where  some  cruel  temple  rose  on  high — 
I  will  not  scratch  that  heathen  head,  not  I, 
Moreover,  I  am  certain  that  you  bite  ! 

I  wonder  haply,  long,  long  years  ago 

If  once  you  lived,  a  painted  Aztec  priest, 

Ill-famed  for  many  a  fierce  and  hurtful  deed, 

Who  in  your  guise  must  watch  the  seasons  flow, 

A  captive,  far  from  sacrificial  feast, 

Cloyed  with  the  unconvincing  nut  and  seed  ! 


TO  A  TERRIER 

(November,  1910) 

CRIB,    on    your    grave    beneath    the    chestnut 

boughs 

To-day  no  fragrance  falls  nor  summer  air, 
Only  a  master's  love  who  laid  you  there 
Perchance   may  warm  the  earth   'neath  which 

you  drowse 
In    dreams  from    which   no   dinner  gong  may 

rouse, 

Unwakeable,  though  close  the  rat  may  dare, 
Deaf,  though  the  rabbit  thump  in  playful  scare, 
Silent,  though  twenty  tabbies  pay  their  vows. 

And   yet,  mayhap,  some  night   when    shadows 

pass, 

And  from  the  fir  the  brown  owl  hoots  on  high, 
That  should  one  whistle  'neath  a  favouring  star 
Your  small  white  shade  shall  patter  o'er  the 

grass, 

Questing  for  him  you  loved  o'  days  gone  by, 
Ere  Death  the  Dog-Thief  carried  you  afar  ! 
88 


TO  A  DEBUTANTE 

You  trip,  O  Youth  incarnate,  down  the  stairs, 
Dear  Miss  Nineteen,  whose   dance-fresh  grace 

defies 

Blossom  of  orchards,  April's  very  skies  ; 
So  might  a  nymph  have  slid  to  shepherd  airs 
In  groves  of  cypress  where  the  ringdove  pairs, 
Lightfoot,  elusive,  panting,  woodland-wise, 
With  just  a  half-shy  challenge  in  the  eyes, 
To  fan  pursuit  or  wake  the  love  that  dares. 

Still  I,  your  mid-aged  friend,  do  most  acclaim 
Not  the  curved  lip,  the  sun-steeped  eyes  of  you, 
Nor  two  slim  feet,  the  bard-sung  "  little  mice," 
But  that  dear  gift,  the  clean,  untarnished  flame 
That  sends  you,  'twixt  the  midnight  chimes  and 

two, 
With  cheery  gusto  into  supper  thrice  1 


HORNS    OF    ELFLAND 


A    DREAM 

AND  at  night  we'd  find  a  town, 

Flat-roofed,  by  a  star-strewn  sea, 
Where  the  pirate  crew  came  down 

To  a  long-forgotten  quay, 
And  we'd  meet  them  in  the  gloaming, 

Tarry  pigtails,  back  from  roaming, 
With  a  pot  of  pirate  ginger  for  the  likes  of  hel 
and  me  ! 

She  was  small  and  rather  pale, 

Grey-eyed,  grey  as  smoke  that  weaves, 
And  we'd  watch  them  stowing  sail, 

Forty  most  attractive  thieves  ; 
Propped  against  the  porphyry  column, 

She  was  seven,  sweet  and  solemn, 
And  she'd   hair   blue-black   as   swallows  when 
they  flit  beneath  the  eaves. 

On  the  moonlit  sands  and  bare, 
Clamorous,  jewelled  in  the  dusk, 
93 


A   DREAM 

There  would  be  an  Eastern  Fair, 

We  could  smell  the  mules  and  musk, 
We  could  see  the  cressets  flaring, 
And  we'd  run  to  buy  a  fairing 
Where  a  black  man  blew  a  fanfare  on  a  carven 
ivory  tusk. 

And  we'd  stop  before  the  stall 

Of  a  grave  green-turbaned  khan, 
Gem  or  flower — he  kept  them  all — 

Persian  cat  or  yataghan ; 
And  I'd  pay  a  golden  guinea 

And  she'd  fill  her  holland  pinny 
With  white  kittens  and  red  roses  and  blue  stones 
from  Turkestan  ! 


London  streets  have  flowers  anew, 

London  shops  with  gems  are  set ; 
When  you've  none  to  give  them  to, 

What  is  pearl  or  violet  ? 
Vain  things  both  and  emptinesses, 
So  they  wait  a  dream-Princess's 
Coming,   if  she's  sweet  and  solemn  with  grey 
eyes  and  hair  of  jet ! 
94 


GHOSTS  OF   PAPER 

SHOULD  you  go  down  Ludgate  Hill, 
As  I'm  sure  you  sometimes  will, 
When  the  dark  comes  soft  and  new, 
Smudged  and  smooth  and  powder-blue, 
And  the  lights  on  either  hand, 
Run  away  to  reach  the  Strand  ; 
And  the  winter  rains  that  stream 
Make  the  pavements  glance  and  gleam  ; 
There  you'll  see  the  wet  roofs  rise 
Packed  against  the  lamp-lit  skies, 
And  at  once  you  shall  look  down 
Into  an  enchanted  town. 
Jewelled  Fleet  Street,  golden  gay, 
Sloughs  the  drab  of  work-a-day, 
Conjuring  before  you  then 
All  her  ghosts  of  ink  and  pen, 
Striking  from  her  magic  mint 
Places  you  have  loved  in  print, 
From  the  fairy  towns  and  streets 
Raised  by  Djinn  and  fierce  Afreets, 
95 


GHOSTS   OF   PAPER 

To  the  columned  brass  that  shone 
On  the  gates  of  Babylon. 
You  shall  wander,  mazed,  amid 
Pylon,  palm,  and  pyramid  ; 
You  shall  see,  where  taxis  throng, 
River  lamps  of  old  Hong  Kong ; 
See  the  ramparts  standing  tall 
Of  the  wondrous  Tartar  Wall ; 
See,  despite  of  rain  and  wind, 
Marble  towns  of  rosy  Ind, 
And  the  domes  and  palaces 
Crowning  Tripoli  and  Fez. 
While,  where  buses  churn  and  splash, 
There's  the  ripple  of  a  sash, 
Silken  maid  and  paper  fan 
And  the  peach-bloom  of  Japan. 
But,  the  finest  thing  of  all, 
You  shall  ride  a  charger  tall 
Into  huddled  towns  that  haunt 
Picture-books  of  old  romaunt, 
Where  go  squire  and  knight  and  saint, 
Heavy  limned  in  golden  paint ; 
You  shall  ride  above  the  crowd 
On  a  courser  pacing  proud, 
In  fit  panoply  and  meet 
96 


GHOSTS   OF   PAPER 

Through  be-cobbled  square  and  street, 
Where  with  bays  and  gestures  bland 
Little  brown-faced  angels  stand  ! 

•  •  •  •  * 

These  are  some  of  things  you'll  view 
When  the  night  is  blurred  and  blue, 
If  you  look  down  Ludgate  Hill, 
As  I'm  sure  you  often  will ! 


07 


TO    A    CHALK-BLUE 

BUTTERFLIES,  Butterflies,  delicate  downy  ones, 
Golden,  and  purple,  and  yellowy  browny  ones, 
Whites,  reds,  and  tortoiseshells,  what's  in  a 

hue? 
You're    worth    the    whole    lot    of  them,  little 

Chalk-Blue  ! 

Fabled  Apollos,  of  bug-hunter's  hollow  tales, 
Camberwell     Beauties,     Large    Coppers,     and 

Swallow-tails, 
They've  fled  from  high  farming,   they've  gone 

down  the  breeze, 
To  Elfland  perhaps,  or  wherever  you  please  ! 

You,  Master  Blue,  hold  by  man  and  his  handi- 
works, 

Chalk-pits  and  cuttings,   and  engineer's    sandy 
works, 

Sway  on  his   wheat  stalks,   most   buoyant  and 
bold, 

A  turquoise  a-droop  on  a  chain  of  light  gold  ! 
98 


TO   A   CHALK-BLUE 

Here  was  your    home,   ere   the   Legion's    lean 

warriors 

Laughed  at  the  slings  of  Druidical  quarriers, 
Or  ever  the  Eagles  came  swooping  ashore, 
You  flew  your  blue  ensign  from  Lizard  to  Nore  ! 

Long  may  you  linger  and  flourish  exceedingly, 
Dancing  the  sun  round  all  summer  unheedingly, 
Sprite    of  his   splendour,  small    priest    of   high 

noon, 
Oh,  bold  little,  old  little,  blue  bit  of  June  ! 


99 


PUK-WUDJIES 

(""  The  Puk-Wudjies    ...    the  little  People."— Longftlhw.] 

THEY  live  'neath  the  curtain 
Of  fir  woods  and  heather, 
And  never  take  hurt  in 

The  wildest  of  weather, 
But  best  they  love  Autumn — she's    brown   as 

themselves — 
And  they  are  the   brownest  of  all  the   brown 

elves  ; 

When  loud  sings  the  West  Wind, 
The  bravest  and  best  wind, 
And  puddles  are  shining  in  all  the  cart  ruts, 
They  turn  up  the  dead  leaves, 
The  russet  and  red  leaves, 

Where  squirrels  have  taught  them  to  look  out 
for  nuts  ! 

The  hedge-cutters  hear  them 

Where  berries  are  glowing, 
The  scythe  circles  near  them 

At  time  of  the  mowing, 
100 


PUK-WUDJIES 

But  most  they  love  woodlands  when  Autumn's 

winds  pipe, 
And  all  through  the  cover  the  beechnuts  are  ripe, 

And  great  spikey  chestnuts, 

The  biggest  and  best  nuts, 

Blown  down  in  the  ditches,   fair    windfalls  lie 
cast, 

And  no  tree  begrudges 

The  little  Puk-Wudjies 
A  pocket  of  acorns,  a  handful  of  mast ! 

So  should  you  be  roaming 

Where  branches  are  sighing, 
When  up  in  the  gloaming 

The  moon-wrack  is  flying, 

And  hear  through  the  darkness,  again  and  again, 
What's  neither  the   wind    nor    the    spatter    of 

rain — 

A  flutter,  a  flurry, 
A  scuffle,  a  scurry, 

A  bump  like  the  rabbits'  that  bump  on  the  ground, 
A  patter,  a  bustle 
Of  small  things  that  rustle, 
You'll  know  the  Puk-Wudjies  are  somewhere 
around  ! 

101 


THE  DISAPPOINTED  DEMON 

A  JAPANESE  artist  of  old  took  a  chisel, 
And  a  chunk  of  smooth  ivory,  soft  as  is  such, 
And,  wrinkle  by  wrinkle  and  bristle  by  bristle, 
A  little  old  demon  had  life  at  his  touch, — 
A  squat  little  figure 
All  sword-belts  and  vigour, 
With   claws    that  could    clasp    with   a   terrible 
clutch  ! 

A  tea-house  acquired  him,  he  sat  in  its  porches 
For  years  of  red  lacquer  and  joss-stick  and  fan, 
The  sun  on  the  fir-trees  at  noon,  and  the  torches 
Of  gay  paper  lanterns  at  nightfall,  he'd  scan, 

Blind  to  both  for  a  geisha, 

The  brightest  in  Asia, 
Whom  he  loved,  as  a  demon  in  ivory  can  ! 

She   was   small    and  delightful,  her    silk    robes 

would  rustle 
When  she  slid  o'er  the  matting  with   tea-tray 

and  pot, 

I O2 


THE   DISAPPOINTED   DEMON 

She'd  a  flower  in  her  hair  and  a  sash  like  a  bustle, 
And  she  loved  her  old  demon,  he  fancied,  a  lot; 
For  she  laughed  at  him  often, 
He'd  thrill  then  and  soften  ; 
She  was  called  something  San,  though  I  never 
learnt  what. 

But  alas  for  his  fancies,  he'd  misunderstood  her  ; 
One  day,  when  the  peach-bloom  was  pink  on 

the  trees, 
There    came  a  Mikado's    Court    Captain  who 

wooed  her 

And  wed  her  and  carried  her  off  at  his  ease, 
And  a  P.  &  O.  seaman 
He  looted  the  demon, 
And  brought  him  to  London  across  the  high  seas ! 


Now  he  sits  on  my  chimney  in  all  his  regalia, 
As  bored  as  a  Buddha.     He  dreams  of  Japan, 
Of  hill-sides  of  cherry  and  banks  of  azalea 
And  pines  that  would  whisper  to  maiden  and  man, 

But  mostly  of  laughter 

That  rang  to  the  rafter, 

The  laughter  of  blossom-cheeked  somebody  San  ! 
103 


"TREASURE    ISLAND" 

A  LOVER  breeze  to  the  roses  pleaded, 

Failed  and  faltered,  took  heart  and  advanced  ; 

Up  over  the  peaches,  unimpeded, 

A  great  Red  Admiral  ducked  and  danced  ; 

But  the  boy  with  the  book  saw  not,  nor  heeded, 
Reading  entranced — entranced  ! 

He  read,  nor  knew  that  the  fat  bees  bumbled  ; 

He  woke  no  whit  to  the  tea-bell's  touch, 
The  browny  pigeons  that  wheeled  and  tumbled, 

(For  how  should  a  pirate  reck  of  such  ?). 
He  read,  and  the  flaming  flower-beds  crumbled, 

At  tap  of  the  sea-cook's  crutch  ! 

And  lo,  there  leapt  for  him  dolphins  running 
The  peacock  seas  of  the  buccaneer, 

Long,  savage  reefs  where  the  seals  lay  sunning, 
The  curve  of  canvas,  the  creak  of  gear  ; 

For  ever  the  Master's  wondrous  cunning 
Lent  him  of  wizard  lear  ! 


104 


"TREASURE   ISLAND" 

But  lost  are  the  garden  days  of  leisure, 
Lost  with  their  wide-eyed  ten-year-old, 

Yet  if  you'd  move  to  a  bygone  measure, 
Or  shape  your  heart  to  an  ancient  mould, 

Maroons  and  schooners  and  buried  treasure 
Wrought  on  a  page  of  gold — 

Then  take  the  book  in  the  dingy  binding 
Still  the  shadows  come,  bearded,  great, 

And  swaggering  files  of  sea-thieves  winding 
Back,  with  their  ruffling  cut-throat  gait, 

Reclaim  an  hour  when  we  first  went  finding 
Pieces  of  Eight — of  Eight. 


105 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

WE  saw  the  arc  of  the  rainbow  stand  up  o'er 

the  garden  wall, 
We  scaled  that  perilous  rampart  to  spy  where 

its  foot  might  be, 
We  saw  its    trailing  triumph,   we    marked  its 

flashing  fall, 
Over  the  hay-field,  down   by  the  river,  under 

the  pollard-tree  ; 
We  saw  the  fall  of  the  rainbow, 

We  guessed  where  the  gold  would  be, 
Under  the  pollard,  pollard,  pollard, 

Under  the  pollard-tree  ! 

We    slipped    through    the    garden    wicket,    we 

sped  through  the  hay-cocks  proud, 
Where,   gemmed  in  the    slanting  sunset,   each 

winking  raindrop  shone, 
But  we  saw  ere  we  gained  the  river,  afloat  on  a 

purple  cloud, 
The  magical  arch  of  fairy  glory  over  the  valley 

gone  ! 

1 06 


THE    GREAT   ADVENTURE 

We  saw  the  arc  of  the  rainbow 

As  the  slant  of  the  sunset  shone, 

Over  the  valley,  valley,  valley, 
Over  the  valley  gone  ! 

Then  up  and  spake  our  captain,  "  A  fig  for  such 
fairy  gold, 

Come  follow  me  back,  my  hearties,  to  the  things 
of  every  day  ; 

For,  touch  but  a  magic  treasure,  'twill  crumble 
to  ashes  cold, 

So  follow  me  back  through   the   darkling  hay- 
cocks, back  to  the  things  that  pay  ! " 

We  turned  from  the  truant  rainbow, 
And  went  in  the  fading  day, 

Back  through   the   hay-cocks,   hay-cocks,   hay- 
cocks, 
Back  to  the  things  that  pay  ! 


107 


IF  I  HAD  A  BROOMSTICK 

IF  I  had  a  broomstick,  and  knew  how  to  ride  it, 
I'd  fly  through  the  windows  when  Jane  goes  to 

tea, 

And  over  the  tops  of  the  chimneys  I'd  guide  it, 
To  lands  where  no  children  are  cripples  like 

me  ; 

I'd  run  on  the  rocks  with  the  crabs  and  the  sea, 
Where  soft  red  anemones  close  when  you  touch  ; 
If  I  had  a  broomstick,  and  knew  how  to  ride  it, 
If  I  had  a  broomstick — instead  of  a  crutch  ! 


1 08 


WHEN   MARY    GOES 
WALKING 

WHEN  Mary  goes  walking 

The  Autumn  winds  blow, 
The  poplars  they  curtsey, 

The  larches  bend  low, 
The  oaks  and  the  beeches 

Their  gold  they  fling  down, 
To  make  her  a  carpet, 

To  make  her  a  crown  ! 


109 


THE  GARDENER'S  CAT 

THE  gardener's  cat's  called  Mignonette, 
She  hates  the  cold,  she  hates  the  wet, 
She  sits  among  the  hothouse  flowers 
And  sleeps  for  hours  and  hours  and  hours. 

She  dreams  she  is  a  tiger  fierce 
With  great  majestic  claws  that  pierce, 
She  sits  by  the  hot-water  pipes 
And  dreams  about  a  coat  of  stripes  ; 

And  in  her  slumbers  she  will  go 
And  stalk  the  sullen  buffalo, 
And  when  he  roars  across  the  brake 
She  does  not  wink,  she  does  not  wake. 

It  must  be  perfectly  immense 
To  dream  with  such  magnificence, 
And  pass  the  most  inclement  day 
In  this  indeed  stupendous  way. 
HO 


THE   GARDENER'S   CAT 

She  dreams  of  India's  sunny  clime, 
And  only  wakes  at  dinner-time, 
And  even  then  she  does  not  stir 
But  waits  till  milk  is  brought  to  her. 

How  nice  to  be  the  gardener's  cat, 
She  troubles  not  for  mouse  or  rat, 
But,  when  it's  coming  down  in  streams, 
She  sits  among  the  flowers  and  dreams. 

The  gardener's  cat  would  be  the  thing, 
Her  dreams  are  so  encouraging  ; 
She  dreams  that  she's  a  tiger,  yet 
She's  just  a  cat  called  Mignonette  ! 


The  moral's  this,  my  little  man — 
Sleep  'neath  life's  hailstones  when  you  can, 
And  if  you're  humble  in  estate, 
Dream  splendidly,  at  any  rate  I 


III 


"HOLD" 

I  KNOW  where  Hampshire  fronts  the  Wight, 

A  little  church,  where  "  after  strife  " 
Reposes  Guy  de  Blanquely,  Knight, 

By  Alison  his  wife  : 
I  know  their  features'  graven  lines 

In  time-stained  marble  monotone, 
While  crouched  before  their  feet  reclines 

Their  little  dog  of  stone  ! 

I  look  where  Blanquely  Castle  still 

Frowns  o'er  the  oak  wood's  summer  state, 
(The  maker  of  a  patent  pill 

Has  purchased  it  of  late), 
And  then  through  Fancy's  open  door 

I  backward  turn  to  days  of  old, 
And  see  Sir  Guy — a  bachelor 

Who  owns  a  dog  called  "  Hold  "  ! 

I  see  him  take  the  tourney's  chance, 
And  urge  his  coal-black  charger  on 
112 


"HOLD" 

To  an  arbitrament  by  lance 

For  lovely  Alison  ; 
I  mark  the  onset,  see  him  hurl 

From  broidered  saddle  to  the  dirt 
His  rival,  that  ignoble  Earl — 

Black-hearted  Massingbert ! 

Then  Alison,  with  down-dropped  eyes, 

Where  happy  tears  bedim  the  blue, 
Bestows  a  valuable  prize 

And  adds  her  hand  thereto  ; 
My  lord,  his  surcoat  streaked  with  sand, 

Remounts,  low  muttering  curses  hot, 
And  with  a  base-born,  hireling  band 

He  plans  a  dastard  plot ! 

•  •  •  •  • 

'Tis  night — Sir  Guy  has  sunk  to  sleep, 

The  castle  keep  is  hushed  and  still — 
See,  up  the  spiral  stairway  creep, 

To  work  his  wicked  will, 
Lord  Massingbert  of  odious  fame, 

Soft  followed  by  his  cut-throat  staff; 
Ah,  "  Hold  "  has  justified  his  name 

And  pinned  his  lordship's  calf ! 

113  I 


"HOLD" 

A  growl,  an  oath,  then  torches  flare  ; 

Out  rings  a  sentry's  startled  shout ; 
The  guard  are  racing  for  the  stair, 

Half-dressed,  Sir  Guy  runs  out  ; 
On  high  his  glittering  blade  he  waves, 

He  gives  foul  Massingbert  the  point, 
He  carves  the  hired  assassin  knaves 

Joint  from  plebeian  joint ! 


The  Knight  is  dead — his  sword  is  rust, 

But  in  his  day  I'm  certain  "  Hold  " 
Wore,  as  his  master's  badge  of  trust, 

A  collarette  of  gold  : 
And  still  I  like  to  fancy  that, 

Somewhere  beyond  the  Styx's  bound, 
Sir  Guy's  tall  phantom  stoops  to  pat 

His  little  phantom  hound  1 


114 


IN   AN  OLD   NURSERY 

A  PRIM  old  room  where  memories  stir 
Through  faded  chintz  and  wall-paper, 
Like  bees  along  the  lavender 

Of  some  dim  border  ; 
Bay-windowed,  whence  at  close  of  day 
You  see  the  roosty  starlings  sway 
High  on  the  elm-tree's  topmost  spray 

In  gossip  order. 

In  its  quaint  realm  how  soon  one  slips 
Back  to  the  age  of  treasure-ships, 
The  atmosphere  of  cowboy-trips 

And  boundless  prairies ; 
And  when  the  red  logs  fret  and  fume 
(They're  lit  to-night  to  air  the  room) 
Here  come  a  tip-toe  in  the  gloom 

Old  nursery  fairies. 

Here  come  dear  ghosts  to  him  who  sees- 
Fat  ghosts  of  long  digested  teas, 
Thin  little  ghosts  of  "  saying  please," 
Big  ghosts  of  birthdays, 
US 


IN   AN   OLD   NURSERY 

And  sundry  honourable  sprites 
To  whisper  those  foredone  delights 
Of  hallowe'ens  and  stocking-nights 
And  other  mirth-days. 

Its  walls  are  full  of  musics  drawn 
From  twitterings  in  the  eaves  at  dawn, 
From  swish  of  scythe  on  summer  lawn, 

From  Shetlands  pawing 
The  gravel  by  the  front-door  yew, 
And,  wind-tossed  from  the  avenue, 
Fugues  of  first  February  blue 

And  rooks  a-cawing. 

Old  room,  the  years  have  galloped  on, 
The  days  that  danced,  the  hours  that  shone 
Have  turned  their  backs  on  you  and  gone 

By  ways  that  harden  ; 
But  you — in  you  their  gold  and  myrrh 
And  frankincense  of  dreams  still  stir 
Like  bees  that  haunt  the  lavender 

Of  some  walled  garden  ! 


116 


THE  CUSTOM  HOUSE 

THE  Custom  House  in  Billingsgate 
Is  very  large  and  very  great, 
All  summer  its  electrics  swish 
To  dissipate  the  smell  of  fish. 

Outside  the  streets  are  glaring,  grim, 
Inside  it's  cool  and  wide  and  dim, 
And  all  its  rooms  have  swinging  doors, 
And  disinfectants  on  the  floors. 

From  its  front  windows  one  may  see 
The  Thames  as  muddy  as  can  be  ; 
Its  clerks  are  very  cross  and  sour, 
And  keep  you  waiting  half-an-hour. 

But  you  may  watch  the  tramps  go  by 
For  Christiansund  or  Uruguay, 
Or  read,  what  most  my  fancy  stirs, 
The  "  Notices  to  Mariners." 
117 


THE  CUSTOM  HOUSE 

These  tell  of  buoys  and  lights  and  quays, 
For  those  in  "  peril  of  the  seas," 
They  caution  captains,  and  convict 
The  sunken  shoal  or  derelict. 

And  as  you  read  them  you  may  reach 
A  Greenland  floe,  a  coral  beach, 
The  breeze  that  stirs  the  tamarinds, 
Or  rushing,  grey  Atlantic  winds. 

And  so  the  Custom  House,  you  see, 
Seems  quite  a  pleasant  place  to  me  ; 
I  won't  mind  waiting — no,  not  I, 
For  half-an-hour  of  hot  July. 


118 


A  BLACK-LETTER  STORY- 
BOOK 

IN  dingy  binding  dark  with  time 
And  stately  centuries  of  grime, 
An  offspring  of  that  early  prime 

When  first  Ambition 
Set  up,  of  minstrel's  tale  and  rhyme, 

A  print  edition — 

This,  the  old  volume  that  you'll  find 
Dozing  on  upper  shelves,  resigned 
To  modern  manners,  and  the  mind 

That  seldom  heeds  it 
(Save  as  a  marketable  find) 

And  never  reads  it. 

So  dull  it  looks  by  tales  to-day, 
For  here  no  artist's  paints  portray 
In  elfin  fancy,  gnome  or  fay, 

Nor  pencil  stages 
His  light  conceptions  of  the  way 

Across  its  pages. 
119 


A  BLACK-LETTER  STORY-BOOK 

Its  day  was  earlier  far,  you  see, 
Than  these — proved  comrades  though 

they  be — 
Who  fill  a  fire-lit  "  after  tea  " 

From  well-loved  chalice, 
With  fairy,  giant,  and  jinnee, 

With  Rip  and  Alice. 

Yet  if  you  plod  and  persevere 
Along  its  leaded  lines  austere, 
As  an  adventurer  in  drear, 

Dark  wildernesses, 
You'll  learn  to  love  the  spelling  queer, 

The  antic  esses. 

And  find  therein  a  promised  land, 
Where  friends  of  a  robuster  brand, 
Monks,  archers,  and  a  jolly  band 

Of  knights  and  dragons, 
Will  toast  your  advent  to  their  strand 

In  brimming  flagons  ! 


I2O 


A  STORY  OF  A,  B,  C 

WHEN  I'm  going  to  town  of  a  morning, 

Every  day  I  meet 

Three  little  girls  with  grace  adorning 
The  long,  grey  aisle  of  a  London  street 
(The  Saints  be  kind  to  their  class-ward  feet), 
And  I  don't  know  what  their  names  may  be, 
Never  a  one  of  all  the  three, 
So  we'll  call  them  A  and  B  and  C. 
And  A's  as  slim  as  a  willow, 
And  B's  as  nice  as  a  bun, 
And  C's  as  pretty  as  sixpence, 
And  how  shall  the  story  run  ? 


They  go  in  orchard,  apple-green  dresses 

(Best  of  Pomona's  hues), 

They  wear  the  sun  in  their  pig-tailed  tresses, 
They  wear  the  wind  in  their  walking  shoes  ; 
You  wouldn't  know  which  of  the  three   to 
choose. 

121 


A   STORY   OF   A,   B,   C 

Each  of  them  fresh  as  an  April  day, 
Each  of  them  bright  as  a  roundelay, 
Each  of  them,  C  and  B  and  A. 

And  A's  the  grace  of  a  princess, 

And  B's  as  sweet  as  a  rose, 
And  C,  she's  pretty  as  sixpence, 
And  that's  how  the  story  goes  ! 

Now  that's  as  far  as  my  knowledge  reaches, 

Fancy  finds  the  end, 
"  Sugar  and  spice  "  for  all  and  each  is 

Always  there  when  it's  "  Let's  pretend"; 
So  'tis  settled  that  Fate's  to  send 
Sugar  and  spice  to  all  the  three 
(Letting  them  know  it  comes  from  me), 
Each  of  them,  A  and  B  and  C. 

And  A  shall  marry  a  marquis, 
And  B  shall  marry  a  squire, 
And  C  (who's  pretty  as  sixpence) 
Whomever  her  dreams  desire  ! 


77? 


MOON-FLOWERS 

THE  moon-flowers,  the  moon-flowers,  to  sleepy 
splash  of  fountains 

They  open — grey  and  silver — when  the  stars 
come  overhead, 

And  if  you'd  go  to  Fairyland  and  find  the  Pea- 
cock Mountains 

You've  got  to  pick  the  moon-flowers  before  you 
go  to  bed. 


Oh,  would  you  go  to  Nineveh  of  ancient  pomps 

and  palaces, 
Or  see  the  towers  of  Ascalon  lift  spire  on  aching 

spire, 
Or  sup   with   Montezumas — golden    plate  and 

jewelled  chalices — 

Or  dip  your  pocket-handkerchief  in  purple  vats 
of  Tyre  ? 

Would  you  sail,  a  swart  Phoenician, 
On  a  buccaneering  mission 
123 


MOON-FLOWERS 

(Dig  and   drive  and  swing  of  oar-blades  as  the 
plunging  triremes  go  ! ) 

Till  the  sea-rim  gives  the  highlands 
Of  the  fern-fringed  Happy  Islands  ? 

Ah,  you've  first  to  see  the  moon-flowers  blow  ! 

You've  missed  the  Peacock  Mountains  through 

the  pearl-pink  sea-fog  shimmering, 
The  turkis-blue  and  opal  that  they  bind  about 

their  brows  ; 
You've  missed  the  magic  moorings  where  the 

flying  fish  go  glimmering 

And    painted    dolphins   leaping  in   the   tide-rip 
round  the  bows  ; 

For  the  bit  of  wedding-cake,  you 
Said  was  certain  sure  to  take  you, 
Never  got  you  any  further  on  the  road  that  you 
should  go 

To  the  sapphire  peaks  and  gorges 
Than  St.  Peter's  or  St.  George's, 
And  you'd  never  heard  of  moon-flowers — No  ! 

The  moon-flowers,  the  moon-flowers,  when  first 
the  twilight  changes, 
124 


MOON-FLOWERS 

They  open — grey  and  silver — as  the  stars  come 

out  a-row, 
So  if  you'd  go  to  Fairyland  and  see  the  Peacock 

ranges, 
You've  first  to  face  the  twilight  and  watch  the 

moon -flowers  blow  ! 


T25 


TWILIGHT'S    IN    THE 
CORNERS 

TWILIGHT'S  in  the  corners,  the  twilight  and  the 
fire, 

All  its  jolly  marchers, 
Men-at-arms  and  archers, 

Clank  across  the  carpet  in  most  wonderful  attire — 
Cloak  and  jewelled  dagger, 
Plumes  that  sway  and  swagger, 
As  the  knights  come  riding,  each  attended  by 

his  squire  : 

And  you  hear  the  flutter  as  the  silken  pennons  flit, 
Hear  a  trumpet  fanfare,  and  you  long  to  follow  it, 
Where  brown-eyed  princesses  bend  from  high 

embattled  towers, 

Where  in  wondrous  gardens  flame  the  wondrous 
Wishing  Flowers, 

And  where,  with  knightly  grit, 
You  a  splendid  lance  may  split, 
With  a  brother  of  the  dreamland,  ere  the  school- 
room lamp  is  lit ! 

126 


TWILIGHT'S   IN   THE   CORNERS 

Magic  through  the  fireguard,  oh,  wide  and  wide 
it  flings, 

Tales  of  jousts  and  journeys, 
Tales  of  trysts  and  tourneys, 
Tales  of  monks  and  minstrels,  and  of  fairy  given 
rings, 

Wizard  ways  and  witches, 
Caves  and  buried  riches, 
Listed  camps,  and  companies,  and  comradeship 

of  kings  ; 
Yes,  but  when  they're  leading  out  your  charger 

from  his  stall, 

White  is  he  asistarlight,  red-caparisoned  and  tall, 
Just  as  you  are  mounting  with  a  high  and  mighty 

mien, 

Lady    Lucy's    love    gage    o'er    your    helmet's 
damascene, 

With  a  crash  the  castles  fall, 
Jane  has  left  the  servants'  hall, 
And  she's  brought  the  schoolroom  lamp  in,  and 
the  lamp  has  spoilt  it  all  ! 


127 


PETER  PAN 

AMONG  the  joys  that  winter  brings, 
Is  going  out  and  buying  things. 
When  all  the  shops  look  warm  and  bright 
With  gas  and  with  electric  light, 
Suggestive  in  their  fine  array 
Of  Santa  Glaus  and  Christmas  Day, 
And  all  the  windows  seem  to  try 
To  make  you  go  inside  and  buy. 
And  when  you're  going  home  to  tea, 
It's  nice — if  you  look  up — to  see 
The  stars  that  twinkle  row  by  row, 
All  lit  by  half-past  four  or  so  ; 
The  very  same  that  seldom  peep 
In  summer  till  you've  gone  to  sleep  ; 
It's  nice  to  see  them  now  instead 
Of  after  you  have  gone  to  bed. 
I  do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  when 
There's  rain  and  fog  you'll  see  them  then. 
Then  you  will  watch  the  buses  slide 
And  spatter  mud  on  every  side  ; 
128 


PETER   PAN 

Perhaps  you'll  get  some  on  your  hair, 
And  if  you  do  you  will  not  care  ; 
And  if  it  goes  on  nurse's  dress, 
You'll  view  the  fact  with  cheerfulness  ; 
And  if  she  gets  it  in  her  eye, 
You'll  simply  thrill  with  ecstasy  ; 
And  if  it  goes  in  yours,  why  then 
She'll  help  to  take  it  out  again. 
And  when  you  take  a  cab  or  train, 
From  "  Peter  Pan,"  or  Drury  Lane — • 
When  heads  are  full  of  fairy  caves, 
Of  pirates  and  of  Indian  braves — 
You'll  see  the  lamps  on  every  hand 
Go  swinging  up  and  down  the  Strand, 
And  know  that  London  town  o*  nights, 
Is  just  as  full  of  rich  delights, 
Of  magic  and  of  mystery, 
As  ever  fairy  cave  could  be  : 
Perhaps  you'll  find  in  after  years 
That  London  Town  has  toil  and  tears, — 
Well,  if  you  do,  the  wisest  plan 
Is  just  to  visit  "  Peter  Pan  "  ! 
But  best  of  winter  joys  you'll  find, 
Is — when  they've  drawn  the  nursery  blind- 
To  think  before  you  go  to  bed, 

129  & 


PETER    PAN 

(When  through  the  bars  the  fire  grows  red, 
And  dances  on  the  painted  shelves, 
Until  the  very  toys  themselves 
Seem  quite  alive,  and  dancing  too), 
About  the  lovely  things  you'll  do, 
When  Spring  puts  on  a  wondrous  dress 
Of  little  yellow  crocuses, 
And  whispers  at  the  window-sills 
Of  hyacinths  and  daffodils  1 


130 


ODD    MOMENTS 


THE  FIRST  FISHERMAN 

BESIDE  a  vast  and  primal  sea 
A  solitary  savage  he, 

Who  gathered  for  his  tribe's  rude  need 
The  daily  dole  of  raw  sea-weed. 

He  watched  the  great  tides  rise  and  fall, 
And  spoke  the  truth — or  not  at  all ! 

Along  the  awful  shore  he  ran 
A  simple  pre-Pelasgian  ; 

A  thing  primeval,  undefiled, 
Straightforward  as  a  little  child, — 

Until  one  morn  he  made  a  grab 
And  caught  a  mesozoic  crab  ! 


THE   FIRST   FISHERMAN 

Then — told  the  tribe  at  close  of  day 
A  bigger  one  had  got  away  ! 

From  him  have  sprung  (I  own  a  bias 
To  ways  the  cult  of  rod  and  fly  has) 
All  fishermen — and  Ananias  ! 


'34 


A  MARCH  BROWN 

ONCE  more  come  clarion  and  blue-hearted  dawns, 
And  Springtide  plays  her  yearly  hocus-pocus, 
Her  magic  of  high  March  that  decks  the  lawns 
With  those  her  floral  fays  and  leprechauns, 
The  yellow  daffand  the  green  sheathed  crocus — 
When  through  the  city  softer  winds  envoke  us 
To  where  the  streams  run  down, 
And  the  stark  fells  above  the  birch-woods  frown, 
And  you  first  move  upon  the  waters,  Mr.  Brown  ! 

A  coy  bacillus,  fair  ephemerid, 

For  some  weeks  past  I've  felt  you  in  my  being, 

Till  lately  I  have  come  on  you  amid 

My  daily  toil,  and  softly  you  have  slid 

Across  the  half-writ  page,  till  to  my  seeing 

Have  come  green    fields,  and   bosomed   clouds 

a-fleeing, 

And  mill-stream's  foam-flecked  fuss, 
And  banks  of  primrose,  rathe,  auriferous  ; 
"And  thus,"  I've  said,  "I'd  cast  your  counterfeit, 

and  thus  "  ; 

'35 


A   MARCH   BROWN 

And  rising,  I  have  taken  to  me  rods 
From  the  retreat  where  they  have  been  reclining 
(Waiting  your  whisper,  best  of  naiant  gods), 
And  idly  I've  withdrawn  the  brass-bound  wads, 
And  built  them  up,  the  supple  and  the  shining, 
As  men  build  hopes,  and  felt  my  fingers  twining 
In  that  whole-hearted  squeeze, 
Kept  for  tried  friends  and  mates  of  ancient  ease, 
Round  handles  ardent  from  the  southern  cork- 
wood trees  ! 

Thus  then  I  yield  me  to  your  influence, 
Shy  flutt'erer  of  the  hill-stream  and  the  river, 
Thus  does  your  primal  message  thrill  each  sense, 
Your  wings  susurrant  seem  to  call  me  hence 
To  grey  keen  waters  where  the  catkins  quiver, 
And  I,  responsive,  do  acclaim  you  giver 
Of  these  right  god-sent  spells 
Of  dancing  streams  and  far-off  waiting  fells, 
And  stop   to  look  up    trains  and  write    about 
hotels. 


When  other  men  shall   have  the  mind  to  praise 
June's  jovial  bug  of  carnival  and  riot, 
136 


A    MARCH    BROWN 

That  blossoms  with  wild  roses  and  red  mays, 
He  the  green-drake,  who    sets  whole   streams 

ablaze 

With  mottled  monsters  taking  change  of  diet, 
By  pool  and  shallow,  osier-bed  or  eyot, 
I'll  swear  by  Mr.  Brown 
Who,  in  his  chill  wan  water's  sober  gown, 
Is  yearly  first  to  bid  me  forth  again  from  Town ! 


137 


SPRING  SALMON 

IT'S  oh,  but  I'm  dreaming 
Of  grey  water  streaming, 
Great  rivers  that  go  gleaming 

Where  brown  the  heather  blows, 
Ere  May's  southern  graces 
Rub  out  the  last  white  traces 
From  high  and  mountain  places 

Of  stubborn,  storm-packed  snows  ! 

The  chill  wind  that  searches 

The  low-lying  birches, 

The  old  red  grouse  that  perches 

And  swaggers  in  the  sun  ; 
I'm  fain  for  its  blowing, 
I'm  restless  for  his  crowing, 
And  it's  I  that  would  be  going 

Where  the  spring  salmon  run  ! 

And  oh,  were  they  bulking 
Bright  silver,  or  sulking — 
In  the  snow-broth  a-skulking, 
I  would  care  not  at  all, 
138 


SPRING   SALMON 

I'd  hear  the  falls  ringing, 
I'd  see  the  pine-tops  swinging 
In  a  wind  that's  filled  with  singing 
When  the  green  plover  call  ! 


'39 


TO  A  MAYFLY 

(Ephemera  vulgaris) 

["  Golf  occasionally   has   a  very   weakening  effect   on   fly- 
fishers,  and  is  a  thing  to  be  fought  against." — Daily  Paper.'] 

HAMPSHIRE  woods  are  in  summer's  keeping, 
Sunshine's  sleeping 

On  banks  of  may, 
Spring  has  taken  her  smiles  and  weeping 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away  ! 

Now,  Ephemera,  now  you  gladden 
Streams,  and  madden 

The  morning  rise  ; 
Craftiest  monsters  now  are  had  on 

By  the  veriest  tyro's  flies  ! 

Now  from  memory's  mist  and  vapours 
Gut  that  tapers, 

By  Fancy  thrown, 
Drops  you  here  on  my  books  and  papers — 

Gossamer  wraith — so  lightly  blown  ! 
140 


TO   A   MAYFLY 

Till  I  see  in  your  green-coat  flicker 
Brooks  that  bicker 

And  streams  that  swell  ; 
And  an  elderly  pulse  goes  quicker 

Under  your  old-time  magic  spell  ! 

Far  too  long  on  the  links  I've  striven, 
Tee'd  and  driven, 

(And  cursed  mishap  !) 
Far  too  long  has  my  time  been  given 

To  the  cult  of  my  handicap  ! 

Has  my  wrist  for  your  gentler  science 
Still  compliance 

To  work  my  will  ? 
Can  I  look  for  the  old  reliance 

In  its  flexible  easy  skill  ? 

Or  has  Philistine  usage  rusted 
Tendons  trusted 

Of  old  to  ply, 
When  your  delicate  legions  dusted 

Pool  and  shallow — the  green-drake  fly  ? 
141 


TO   A   MAYFLY 

Ha  !  the  ruler  I  deftly  dandle — 
Claims  of  Vandal 

Amusements  flee, 
As  it  turns  to  a  split-cane  handle — 

Wait  till  Saturday,  then  you'll  see 


142 


THE  UNATTAINABLE 

I  KNOW  a  pool  where  the  river, 

Sunlit  and  still, 
Slips  by  a  bank  of  wild  roses 

Down  from  the  mill  ; 
There  do  I  linger  when  summer  makes  glorious 

Valley  and  hill. 

Somewhere  the  song  of  a  skylark 

Melts  into  air, 
Butterflies  float  through  the  sunshine, 

June's  everywhere  ; 
Nature  in  fact,  shows  an  amiable  jollity 

I  do  not  share. 

For  in  the  shade  of  the  alders, 

Scornful  of  flies, 
There  is  a  trout  that  no  cunning 

Coaxes  to  rise, 
Sly  as  Ulysses,  and  doubtful  as  Didymus, 

Mammoth  in  size. 

And  when  the  Mayfly  battalions 
Flutter  and  skim, 


THE   UNATTAINABLE 

When  all  the  others  are  filling 

Baskets  abrim, 
I  spend  the  cream  of  a  fisherman's  carnival 

Casting  at  him  ; 

Seeing  in  fancy  my  hackle 

Seized  with  a  flounce, 

Hearing  the  reel  racing  madly 
Under  his  pounce, 

Knowing  at  last  all  the  pounds  of  his  magnitude- 
(Eight  of  an  ounce  ! ) 

But  of  my  drakes  and  my  sedges 

None  make  the  kill, 
None  tempt  him  up  from  his  fastness 

Under  the  mill, 
And,  for  I  saw  him  as  lately  as  Saturday, 

There  he  is  still. 

Thus  do  Life's  triumphs  elude  us, 
Yet  it  may  be 

Some  afternoon,  when  the  keeper 
Goes  to  his  tea, 

That,  if  a  lob-worm  were  dropped  unofficially- 
Well,  we  shall  see. 

144 


TO  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

THE  end  draws  near  again,  and  very  near, 
The    first   few  fluttered    beech  leaves  fall  and 

gleam — 

Light  skirmishers  that  dog  the  dying  year — 
But  still  I  see  you  down  below  the  weir, 
A  shadow  in  the  stream  ! 


Here  have  you  lurked  since  spring,  in  sportive 

guise, 

Rallied  the  meadows  to  young  April's  rout, 
Here  first  I  marked  the  marvel  of  your  size, 
Here  wooed  you  with  each  fleeting  season's 

flies— 

O  alderman  of  trout ! 

Here,  when  the  madcap  cuckoo  made  his  mock, 
And  the  rathe  wild-rose  blushed  in  earliest  June, 
The  day  the  mayfly  hatched  above  the  lock — 
You  nearly  had  it,  didn't  you,  old  cock, 

Save  that  you  stopped  too  soon  ? 
145  L 


TO   AN   OLD   FRIEND 

Here  have  I  waited  as  the  dawn  spread  high, 
Hoping  in  vain  the  prejudice  or  pique 
That  makes  you — obviously — reject  a  fly 
Would  send  you  hurtling   through  the  startled 
fry 

To  grab  a  proffered  bleak  ! 

Here  likewise  have  my  steps  at  eve  been  drawn, 
And,  as  the  moon  made  way  behind  the  wood 
(The  same  old  moon  that  watched  the  hunting 

faun), 

I've  found  the  lob-worm  garnered  from  the  lawn 
Did  just  as  little  good  ! 

And  now  the  end  is  near  ;  we  part  a  space, 
You  to  your  mud  and  I  to  mine — in  town  ; 
May  Easter  find  us  at  the  trysting-place, 
There  where  the  dancing  bubbles  spin  and  race, 
To  meet  the  first  March  Brown  ! 


146 


TO  A  KINGFISHER 

ST.  PETER  was  a  fisherman,  a  fisherman  was  he, 
He  killed   his  fish  right  handsomely  in  gentle 

Galilee, 
As  you  and  I  would  do,  my  friend,  from  Severn 

unto  Dee  ! 


He  always  acted  sportsmanlike  though  Luck  she 

scowled  or  laughed, 
He'd  throw  into  a  ten-knot  breeze  as  though  it 

blew  abaft, 
And    you  and  I  are  proud   to  be  of  that  his 

ancient  craft  1 

It's  not  in  any  book  I've  read — but  still  it  may 

have  been 
That    you    have    perched    beside  his   lines,    so 

shiny-eyed  and  keen, 
A  little    apt    disciple    in   a    coat    of   blue    and 

green  ! 

'47 


TO   A   KINGFISHER 

And  since   he  was  a   fisherman,    the  brightest 

bird  that  flies 
He  vowed  to  other  fishermen  who  cast  'neath 

colder  skies, 
To  light   their  river-banks,  that  they  his  name 

might  recognize  ! 

Oh,  I  was  up  last  Saturday  by  Thames's  amber 

brown, 
While  yet  the  oak  and  elm  they  wore  the  night's 

grave  misty  gown, 
And  saw  you  like  an  emerald  go  flashing  up  and 

down  ! 

And  as  it  seemed   for  fishermen  that  life  was 

passing  good, 

I  lit  a  little  candle  at  St.  Peter's-in-the-Wood, 
Or  if  I  didn't  actually,  I  think  he  understood  ! 


148 


THE  MYTH 

(A  Thames  Trout) 

WHERE  the  bulrushes  grow  ranker 

(Oh,  the  long  green  spears  a-gleam  ! ) 

There  the  punt  shall  rock  at  anchor 
In  the  stream  ; 

By  the  weir's  cool  curve  of  thunder, 

By  the  stones  where  wagtails  plunder 
Foolish  daddy-long-leg  flies, 

And  the  strings  of  rainbow  bubbles  in  a  rhapsody 
arise  ! 

Hours  may  pass  and  hours  go  fleeting, 

You  shall  heed  them  not,  but  stay 

Lost  to  them,  and  all  the  sweeting 
Of  the  may  ; 

For  beneath  the  swelling  current 

Where  the  midge-cloud  hangs  susurrant, 
And  the  sweeping  swallows  go, 

Lives  a  most  prodigious  monster, lurking  learnedly 
and  low  ! 

149 


THE   MYTH 

No  !  I've  never  really  seen  him, 

But  the  boatman  tells  a  tale 
Of  a  something  ("  must  'a'  been  'im  ") 

Like  a  whale, 

On  the  shelving  shallow  showing 
"  Where  them  kingcups  is  a-growing," 

Only  just  the  other  night, 

And  the  frightened  fry  went  leaping  from  the 
Presence  left  and  right  ! 

But  a  crafty  old  curmudgeon 

He  must  be,  for  ne'er  a  fin 
Does  he  move  for  any  gudgeon 

That  you  spin  ; 

With  a  wink  he  maybe  watches 
'Neath  the  willow-root's  dark  notches 

As  you  toil  with  aching  wrist, 
But  the  landing-net's  no  nearer,  nor  the  deft 
taxidermist ! 

But  the  skies  are  smiling  bluely, 

There  is  shade  along  the  shore, 

And  the  chestnut's  litten  newly 
Lamps  a  score  ; 

150 


THE   MYTH 

Drop  the  rod  then  and  be  thankful 
For  the  sights  that  fill  the  bank  full — 

Verdant  meads  and  ancient  stems 
And  the  broad  paternal  bigness  and  the  peace 

of  Father  Thames  1 


ANCESTORS 

"  SEPTEMBER  !     Come  out,  'tis  September, 
The  moon  of  the  hunter  is  young," 

This  style,  as  perhaps  you  remember, 

Stamped  songs  that  our  grandpapas  sung  : 

I    can    see   the    old    boys,   in    their    day-time's 

December, 
But  ruddy  as  pippins  and  mighty  of  lung  ! 

I  can  see  the  green  coats  and  white  beavers, 
The  guns  (the  old  flint-lock  affair), 

The  cockers  they  used  as  retrievers 
To  pick  up  their  partridge  or  hare  ; 

No  beaters  to  bungle,  no  bag-making  fevers 
Destroy  the  old-fashioned  repose  of  their  air  ! 

I  see  them  come  down  by  the  spinney, 
They  measure  and  ram  in  their  lead, 

Then  start  through  the  turnips,  with  "  Prinny  " 
And  "  Dash  "  working  gaily  ahead  ; 
152 


ANCESTORS 

If  a  covey  is  flushed  I  would  wager  a  guinea 
They'll  aim  for  a  minute — but  kill  their  birds 
dead! 

They  go  with  their  old-world  precision, 
Their  quaintness  of  garb  and  of  gun, 

Till  out  of  my  day-dreaming  vision 
They  fade  in  the  slant  of  the  sun  ; 

Let's  hope  they  are  tramping  o'er  manors  Elysian, 
With  asphodel-cover  to  give  'em  good  fun  ! 


153 


MY  WOODCOCK 

I  STOOD  in  the  ride,  and  the  glamour 
Of  autumn  was  gold  on  the  trees, 

While  the  far-away  beaters'  faint  clamour 
Was  borne  on  the  whispering  breeze, 

When  the  voices  that  came  through  the  cover 
With  the  tapping  of  stick  upon  stock, 

Rang  out  with  a  roar — "  Woodcock  over  ! 
Cock  forward  !     Mark  cock  !  " 

Like  a  leaf  of  last  year  that  is  lifted 
When  March  is  in  maddest  of  moods, 

Through  the  tops  of  the  beeches  he  drifted, 
A  little  brown  ghost  of  the  woods  : 

Bombarded  with  passionate  vigour, 
He  lazily  dodged  down  the  line, 

And  I  knew,  as  I  pressed  on  the  trigger, 
I  knew  he  was  mine  ! 

My  pulses  may  fade  and  grow  duller, 
My  eyesight  may  weaken,  but  still 
154 


MY  WOODCOCK 

I  shall  see  the  soft  pinion's  warm  colour, 
The  length  of  that  insolent  bill ; 

And,  till  age  leaves  me  withered  and  one-eyed 
At  the  ultimate  end  of  my  road, 

I  shall  hear  the  click-click  of  the  gun  I'd 
Omitted  to  load  ! 


155 


WILD  GEESE 

THEY'RE  shy  as  the  otter,  they're  sly  as  the  fox, 
They're   worse  to  approach   than    the   craftiest 

hind, 
You  may  freeze  on  the  fore-shore  or  crouch  on 

the  rocks, 
You  may  soak  in  the  sea- fog  or  wait  in  the 

wind, 
Though   their  magical  music  will  give  you  no 

peace, 
Yet  your  bag  shall   go  empty,   for  aren't  they 

wild  geese  ? 

Honk-honk,  honk-honk,  the  distant  voices  clank  it ; 
The  wet  retriever  trembles  at  your  knee  ; 
For  he  hears  the  lone  notes  falling, 
Where  the  long  grey  tides  are  crawling, 
Through  the  shouting  west  wind's  buffets  or  the 

dripping  fog's  chill  blanket, 
As  the   wild   geese   come  shoreward  from   the 
sea  ! 

156 


WILD-GEESE 

You  may  stalk  them  at  sundown,  at  dawning's 

first  flame, 

They've  ears  for  the  wariest,  softest  of  treads, 
And,  stook-time  or  snow-time,  the  end  is  the 

same — 

A  picket  gives  warning  and  up  go  their  heads  : 
Yes,  your  boots  (wet  as  sponges  in  spite  of  their 

grease) 
You  may  wear  to  brown  paper  in  chasing  wild 

geese ! 

Yet  still,  honk-honk,  a  northern  charm  shall  fold 

you, 

Though  Shot  shall  shake  the  raindrops  from  his 
sides, 

Though  you  catch  the  drifting  clamour 
Through    the    sleet   squall's  sting   and 

hammer, 
Still  the  flight  shall   work  its    magic   and    the 

breathless  stalk  shall  hold  you, 
When  the  grey  geese  come  calling  off  the  tides  ! 


157 


["  Most   proprietors  nowadays  strictly  preserve  these  beautiful 
and  useful  birds." — Natural  History.] 

SILENT,  mysterious,  on  wings  of  down, 
A  swift,  deceptive  presence  in  the  cover, 
Vaguely  irresolute,  soft-breasted,  brown, 
Bird  of  Minerva,  tawny-eyed  moon-lover, 
You  faced  the  sunshine  mid  the  fir-trees  gaunt, 
Roused  by  the  beaters'  distant  sticks  a-tapping, 
From  some  sequestered,  hidden,  noontide  haunt, 
Where  doubtless  you'd  been  napping. 

Now  all  that's  mortal  of  you,  limp  and  dead, 
Lies  where  a  few  pale,  floating  plumes  still  fly 

light ; 

Your  little  ghost,  I  like  to  think,  has  sped 
To  the  dim  nether  world  of  endless  twilight, 
(Fit  paradise  for  one  who  loved  full  well 
The  empty  dark,  those  shores  forlorn,  abhorrent,) 
To  sail  for  ever  o'er  the  asphodel, 
By  Styx's  gloomy  torrent  ! 
158 


DIRGE   TO   A   DEAD   OWL 

Meanwhile  with   hasty    hands    the    mould    I'll 

heap 

Over  your  warm,  uncaring,  earthly  habit, 
Over  the  pinions  that  no  more  may  sweep 
Upon  the  unsophisticated  rabbit ; 
Lost  to  the  daylight  (which  you  couldn't  brook, 
You  loathed  that  sunrise  bore,  the  dull  but  good 

cock), 

None  of  the  guns  shall  guess  that  I  mistook 
You  for  the  sweepstakes  woodcock. 


159 


TO  A  DECEMBER  GROUSE 

(Heard  from  the  smoking-room) 

NAY,  is  it  now  you'd  have  me  take  the  hill, 
Voice  from  the  snow  line,  far  away  and  mocking  ? 
In  August,  well,  you  might  have  roused  a  thrill, 
But  now,  when  sleet  showers   drive  and  pines 
are  rocking 

In  the  keen  north-east  wind, 

I  find 
The  cheery  hearth  and  a  dry  boot  and  stocking 

More  to  my  mind 

Than  the  wet   mountain  and  your  wild   cok- 
coking  ! 


In  August,  yes,  'twas  doubtless  vastly  well, 
When  butterflies  and  bees  and  guns  together 
Made  holiday  in  dingle  and  in  dell, 
To  seek  you  'mid  a  charm  of  sky  and  weather, 
With  a  fair  interlude 
For  food, 
1 60 


TO   A   DECEMBER   GROUSE 

In    sunshine    that    could    tan    one's   cheeks   to 
leather, 

Before  I  strewed 
Again  your  youthful  kind  upon  the  heather  ! 

I  know  the  game  to-day — the  snow,  the  blast 
Down  which  the  swinging  packs  will  whirr  and 

whizz  hard, 

I'd  hear  your  ramping  pinions  whistle  past, 
And — I   should  miss  you,  nipped   of  nose  and 
gizzard, 

And  drain  the  futile  dram, 

And  damn 
The  braes,  the  bleakness,  and  the  brutal  blizzard, 

For  oh,  I  am 
A  chilly  thing  and  "  meagre  as  a  lizard  "! 

I  come  not  at  your  challenge,  haughty  bird  ! 
Let  the  more  earnest  and  the  harder  bitten, 
If  they  should  choose  to  make  themselves  absurd, 
Compass  your  end  in  mackintosh  and  mitten  ; 
I  find  my  sole  desire 

The  fire, 
And  this  great  padded  chair  which  now  I  sit  on, 

Nor  shall  I  tire 

Of  pipes  and  papers  and  the  Persian  kitten  ! 
161  M 


THE    PERENNIAL    RABBIT 

THE  savage  by  primeval  Thames, 

Lurking,  the  mammoth  to  waylay, 
Amid  the  awful  forest  stems, 

On  some  far,  dim,  forgotten  day, 
As  that  vast  bulk  of  brawn  and  beef 

Squelched  off  unscathed  through  lone  morasses, 
Would  turn,  I  doubt  not,  with  relief 

To  where  you  scuttled  in  the  grasses ! 

Perhaps  my  cave-man  blood's  to  blame, 

For — atavistic  taint — I  too 
Have  dropped  a  more  exacting  game, 

Bunny,  to  have  a  bang  at  you  ; 
The  driven  partridge  missed  in  front, 

And  eke  behind,  lacks  serious  merit 
Beside  a  sunny  hedgerow  hunt, 

A  terrier  and  an  active  ferret ! 

Give  me  a  summer  afternoon, 

An  air-gun  and  the  drone  of  bees, 
162 


THE   PERENNIAL   RABBIT 

The  water-meadows  lush  with  June, 
A  stalk  among  the  Alderneys  ; 

Then,  hit  or  miss,  I  care  no-ways, 
In  such  surroundings  I  consider 

You're  worth  a  hundred  storm-swept  braes 
And  all  the  royals  in  Balquidder  ! 

Indeed,  wherever  I  may  go, 

Through  summer  woods,  by  wintry  fell, 
I've  found  you,  in  the  sun  or  snow, 

A  friendly  little  Ishmael ; 
Along  the  southern  trout-stream  banks, 

Or  with  the  ptarmigan  consorting, 
You've  always  earned  my  grateful  thanks, 

And  in  all  seasons  acted  sporting  ! 

Hushed  is  the  hairy  mammoths'  roar 

And  gone  the  mastodon  uncouth 
Down  to  decay  with  dinosaur, 

Aurochs,  and  fearsome  sabre-tooth  ; 
But  you,  small  beast  in  hodden-gray, 

Survive,  and  will,  I  take  for  granted, 
Be  here  when  I  am  dust,  to  play 

In  moonlit  covers  still  unplanted  ! 

163 


AN  EMPTY  SADDLE 

DOWN  the  hill  path  echo  the  hoof-beats  hollow, 

The  empty  saddle  sways  ; 
Sadly  the  road  that  weary  feet  must  follow 

Winds  through  the  darkling  braes. 

Soft  fall  the  clansman  voices,  hushed,  complete  in 

A  pathos  worse  than  woe  ; 
Meet  tongue  indeed  to  murmur  of  defeat  in — 

The  Gaelic,  gentle,  low  ! 

Up  in  the  cliffs  the  raven  cries  for  slaughter, 

The  caustic  croaking  mocks 
A  beaten  man  whose  heart  is  in  the  water 

That  squelches  in  his  socks. 

Bird  of  ill  omen,  sombre  and  accurst  one, 

Be  still  upon  your  crag, 
You  surely  don't  suppose  that  I'm  the  first  one 

Who  missed  a  rotten  stag  ? 


164 


KINGS  AND  CUBBING 

THEY  built  rosy  castles, 

And  big,  winged  bulls, 
And  red-robed  wizards 

Worked  miracles, 
When  the  kings  rode  hunting 

With  javelin  and  bow 
Down  the  road  to  Nineveh 

A  long  time  ago  ! 

They  sat  on  their  saddles 

As  good  men  sit, 
Long  in  the  stirrup, 

Light  on  the  bit, 
Their  proud  lips  a-curling, 

Their  crimped  beards  just  so. 
Down  the  road  to  Nineveh 

A  long  time  ago  ! 

And  what  did  they  ride  for  ? 
Great  beasts  of  stress 
165 


KINGS   AND   CUBBING 

Lithe  and  tremendous — 

Lions  !  no  less  ! 
The  big  black-maned  beauties 

That  prowled  to  and  fro 
Down  the  road  to  Nineveh 

A  long  time  ago  ! 

For  why  should  we  doubt  it  ? 

Still  does  each  chief 
Fill  them  with  arrows — 

In  bas-relief, 
And  fine  rough-and-tumbles 

The  grim  carvings  show 
Down  the  road  to  Nineveh 

A  long  time  ago  ! 

Then  hear  us,  O  Nimrod, 

That  we  may  find 
Heart  such  as  theirs  was 

(Jumps  still  are  blind) ; 
Send  cubs  stout  as  lions, 

The  sort  they  laid  low 
Down  the  road  to  Nineveh 

A  long  time  ago  ! 

1 66 


TO  A  FOX-CUB 

You  slipped  through  the  hedgerow's  high  tangle 

of  bramble, 

You  knew  of  the  gap  by  the  hazel-tree's  trunk, 
As  sharp  as  a  needle,  as  red  as  a  Campbell, 
Surprised,  very  likely,  but  not  in  a  funk  ; 
Demure  as  a  kitten,  yet  wise  and  hard-bitten, 
You  pricked  a  keen  ear  to  the  crash  in  the  scrub, 
Where  Grateful  and  Glitter  had  stirred  up  the 

litter, 
O  bandit  beginner — O  cool  little  cub  ! 

You  went  like  a  dream,   yet  an  eye  of  cold 

yellow 

You  cocked  in  a  crafty  but  confident  glance, 
As  much  as  to  tell  me,  "  Now,  be  a  good  fellow, 
Say  nothing  about  it  and  give  us  a  chance  ; 
Those  lashing  white  ladies  can  gallop  like  Hades, 
They'd  slate   me — at  present — in  less  than  a 

mile  ; 

I'm  small,  I'm  a  baby,  sit  quiet,  and  maybe 
I'll  live  to  reward  you  with  something  worth 

while  !" 

167 


TO   A   FOX-CUB 

Discreetly  I  watched  you  dive  under  the  double; 
I  moved  not  an  eyelid,  I  give  you  my  word  ; 
If  out  of  the  belt  by  the  ten-acre  stubble 
A  jay  screamed  a  menace,  well,  nobody  heard  ; 
For    far    in    the   whinny,  green  depths  of  the 

spinney 

A  brother,  ill-fated,  was  biting  the  mud, 
Borne  down  in  a  flurry  of  furies  that  worry 
And  bristle  and  clamour  for  blood,  and  for  blood  ! 

And  so  it's  a  bargain,  my  boy,  you'll  remember  ; 
Some  day  we  shall  ask  you  to  settle  the  bill, 
Some  soft,  misty  day  in  a  distant  December, 
When  you,  a  great  dog-fox,  glide  out  down  the 

hill: 
They'll  find  you  by  noonlight,  and  run  you  till 

moonlight, 
And  I  would  be  with  them  the  whole  of  the 

day, 

By  brook  and  by  village,  by  grass-land  and  tillage, 
To  lose  you,  or  eat  you,  a  county  away  ! 


168 


THIS  was  a  wisdom  that  Solomon  said 
In  a  garden  of  citron  and  roses  red, 
A  word  he  wove,  where  his  grey  apes  played, 
In  the  rhyme  he  strung  for  love  of  a  maid  ; 
Thus  went  his  learning,  most  discerning, 

Thus  he  sang  of  his  old  designs, 
"  Take  us  the  foxes — little  foxes, 

Little  dog-foxes  that  spoil  the  vines  ! " 

(Though  Solomon  never  since  he  was  born 
Had  heard  the  twang  of  a  huntsman's  horn, 
Killing  his  foxes,  so  I'll  be  bound, 
Without  the  help  of  a  horse  or  hound, 
Still  down  the  ages,  this  his  sage's 

Word  with  gallanter  meaning  shines, 
When  we  take  foxes,  little  foxes, 

Little  dog-foxes  that  spoil  the  vines  !) 

So  when  the  morn  hangs  misty  now 
Where  the  grass  shows  never  a  patch  of  plough, 
169 


"THE   LITTLE   FOXES" 

Hark  to  the  cry  on  the  spruce-crowned  hill, 
For  Solomon's  wisdom  is  working  still ; 
Hark  to  the  singing  voices  flinging, 

White  sterns  waving  among  the  pines, 
All  for  the  foxes — little  foxes, 

Little  dog-foxes  that  spoil  the  vines. 

The  lift  of  a  cap  at  the  cover  side, 
A  thud  of  hoofs  in  a  squelchy  ride, 
And  the  pack  is  racing  a  breast-high  scent 
Like  a  shadow  cloud  o'er  a  windy  bent ! 
Customer  cunning — full  of  running, 

Never  a  moment  the  game  declines  ; 
Thus  are  the  foxes — little  foxes, 

Little  dog-foxes  that  spoil  the  vines. 

So  it's  afternoon,  and  eight  miles  away 
That  beat,  dead-weary  and  stiff  with  clay 
A  tired  mask,  set  for  a  distant  whin, 
Is  wheeled  on  Death  with  a  brigand  grin  ! 
There  by  the  paling,  wet  brush  trailing, 
Still  he  bares  them  his  lips'  long  lines  ; 
So  die  the  foxes — little  foxes, 

Little  dog-foxes  that  spoil  the  vines. 
170 


"THE   LITTLE   FOXES" 

This  was  the  wisdom  that  Solomon  made 
In  a  garden  of  citron  and  almug  shade, 
That  a  man  and  a  horse  might  find  them  fun 
Wherever  the  little  dog-foxes  run, 

Since  of  his  meaning  we've  been  gleaning, 

Since  we've  altered  his  old  designs, 
All  about  foxes — little  foxes, 

Little  dog-foxes  that  spoil  the  vines  ! 


171 


JANE— A  TERRIER 

SHE'S  short  in  the  leg  and  she's  long  in  the  jaw, 
And  the  roof  of  her  mouth  is  as  black   as  your 

hat, 
With  her  rough  little  coat  and  her  round  little 

paw, 
She's  a  rum  'un,  is  Jane,  at  fox,  otter,  or  rat ; 

She's  the  hardest  from  Bedale  to  Bicester, 
In  holt  or  in  earth  or  in  drain, 
And  she  sticks  just  as  close  as  a  blister, 
Does  good  little  sister  Jane. 

She  never  was  willing  to  learn  as  a  pup 

To  "  die  for  her  country  "  or  carry  your  stick, 

And  she  always  sat  down  when  you  bade  her 

"sit  up," 
But  she's  clever  as  sin,  and   she's  thunder-bolt 

quick, 

And  the  heaviest  badger'll  shirk  her, 
The  biggest  dog-fox  bolt  amain  ; 
172 


JANE— A   TERRIER 

She's  a  wasp   for   her  weight,  she's  a 

worker, 
Is  good  little  sister  Jane  ! 

At  night,  when  she's  curled  in  her  place  by  the 

fire, 

She  cocks  you  a  wicked  and  earth-reddened  eye, 
To  say  that  her  badger  "  sat  up  "  by  desire, 
That  a  hoary  buck-rat  in  the   hedge  did  the 

«  die," 

And  she    twitches   and    whines   and 

remembers, 

And  tackles  'em  over  again, 
Rolled  up  end  to  end  by  the  embers, 
Does  good  little  sister  Jane  ! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 


THE  LIBRARY 


A  000  504  800  4 


PR 

6003 

C35og 


